


WALTER MALONE 

Age Fortij Years 



SELECTED POEMS 



By 
WALTER MALONE 




PUBLISHERS 

John P. Morton & Company 

Incorporated 

LOUISVILLE. KENTUCKY 



4\ 



*% A^ 



Copyright, 1919 

By ELLA MALONE WATSON 

Capleville, Tennessee 



NOV -8 1919 



C1.A5364T2 



FOREWORD 

In loving memory of my brother, the late Judge Walter 
Malone, this book of selected poems is published. The 
contents of the volume consists of a large number of un- 
published poems together with selections made from his 
many volumes, including the Epic, Hernando De Soto. 

The sketch of his life is written by Frazer Hood, Ph. D. 
During brother Walter's later years Dr. Hood was one of 
his most intimate, personal and literary friends. 

Ella Malone Watson. 



I iii ] 



ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

Thanks are due the following publishers 
in giving permission to reprint: To Chas. 
Scribner's Sons for Solace and Prayer Before 
Planting Trees; The Four Seas Company 
for Union of the Seas; The Methodist 
Quarterly Review for Life and Works of 
Walter Malone. 



C iv ] 



CONTENTS 

Page 

Foreword iii 

Acknowledgment iv 

In Praise of Myself x 

Life and Works of Walter Malone xiii 

Preface to a Book of Poems xxvii 

Toiler and Idler 1 

Memorial Day 3 

Forgotten Heroes 5 

Abraham Lincoln 6 

Robert E. Lee 6 

Forrest in Memphis 7 

The Return of Dewey 9 

America and England 10 

America at Manila 10 

The Battle 12 

The Captured Battleship 12 

Cuba Free 14 

A Night in Cuba 15 

My First Book 16 

To an Unknown Reader 16 

The Humbler Poets 18 

The Poet to His Book 19 

To a Poet 21 

The Death of Poetry 23 

Sonnet on My 21st Birthday, February 10, 1887 23 

The Reading Boy 24 

The Whistling Boy 25 

In an Old Library 26 

-Opportunity 27 

The World is My Home 28 

Omar in Heaven 29 

The Penitentiary 33 

The Potter's Field 37 

The Churchyard 41 

Mary 43 

To One Departed 44 

Confirmation 44 

Alone in New York 45 

On Returning to New York 46 

C v ] 



Contents 



Page 

Ode for Charter Day in New York, May 4, 1898 48 

Union Square 49 

To A Stranger 51 

A Stranger in London 52 

Ode for the Semi-Centennial Celebration of the Founding of the 

Sigma Chi Fraternity, Oxford, Ohio, June 28, 1905 54 

The Tree in the City 55 

The Charms of the City 56 

Sunrise in the Country 58 

Mountain Brook 60 

Bohemia 62 

Pasadena 64 

Carroll Vance 65 

The Alps 66 

The Bay of Naples 68 

The Laurels 71 

The Soldier of Fortune 72 

The Sleeping Idlers 73 

The Right to Work 75 

The Klondike 78 

Success and Failure 79 



UNPUBLISHED POEMS 

Prayer Before Planting Trees 80 

To Mike Connolly on his 62nd Birthday 83 

A Gift of Flower Seeds 84 

The Lights of the City 86 

The Dying Tree 89 

The Agnostic's Creed 91 

The Union of the Seas 95 

To a Judge 100 

The Lad in Handcuffs 101 

The Soldier Boy 102 

Had Lincoln Lived 103 

The Greek Boy 106 

The Rebel 107 

The Dried-up Stream Ill 

Sleep 113 

The Son of Adam 115 

Annie Laurie 119 

The Song of the Frogs 120 

Edgar Allen Poe, 1809-1909 121 



[ vi ] 



Contents 



Page 

Whence and Whither 122 

From Low Beginnings 123 

Conquest of China 123 

In Praise of Righteous War 125 

The Haunted House 127 

Epitaph for a Friend 127 

To a Mocking-bird Singing in October 128 

Mother and Child 129 



FROM HERNANDO DE SOTO 

The Earthquake 130 

The Heart's Desire 132 

Solace 133 

To an Enemy 133 

Religion of Brotherhood 134 

SELECTED POEMS 

Frank Fawcett McKernan 137 

Will Hubbard Kernan 138 

Annie Cook 138 

Past and Present 140 

Solitude 141 

The Queen of the Valentines 143 

For Mildred 145 

Fireside Fancies 147 

An Unsent Letter 148 

La Paloma 149 

Portrait of Henry Timrod 151 

Portrait of Michael Angelo 152 

On a Beautiful Portrait by an Unknown Artist 153 

Poe's Cottage at Fordham 154 

Homer 155 

Byron 157 

Napoleon and Byron 158 

Byron Centenary, 1788-1888 159 

Shelley . 159 

Tribute to Shelley 160 

The Tomb of Galileo 161 

Melba 162 

Holland 164 

Saint Augustine 165 

[ vii ] 



Contents 



Page 

San Gabriel Mission 166 

The Everglades 167 

Noon in the Tropics 167 

A Mexican Wayside Station 168 

At the Cathedral of Mexico 169 

In a Tropical Garden , . . . . 171 

Beside the Danube 172 

At the Paris Morgue 173 

The Desert 174 

The Dove of the Desert 176 

The Bluebird 177 

The Humming Bird 181 

The Mocking-bird 182 

The Oriole 187 

The Wood Thrush 191 

The Redbird 192 

The Blackbirds 196 

The Savannah 196 

The Old Mansion 197 

The Dunghill and the Moon 198 

The Fallen Gods 201 

Orchids 204 

The Moon-flower 204 

L'Amante Du Diable 206 

A Defiance 210 

Life 211 

Idyl of Spring 211 

One Summer 213 

A Storm in Summer 216 

By the Summer Sea 218 

A Night in June 219 

Mississippi in June 220 

July Noontide 221 

Drought 223 

September in Tennessee 224 

October in Tennessee 226 

Sunset in Tennessee 227 

Autumn in the South 228 

An Autumn Morning 229 

A Mississippi Swamp 230 

To a Friend 231 

I Love Thy Faults 232 

Mary of Jonesburg 232 

C viii ] 



Contents 



Page 

The First Transgression 233 

Geraldine Gray 235 

Will You Love Me Still 237 

The Morning-glory 238 

Bridal Ballad 239 

The Bachelor 240 

Scorn Not The Heart 241 

Edith Adair 242 

To One I Shall See No More 243 

To One Who Shall Be Nameless 244 

A Southern Love Song 246 

The Lore of Love 247 

He Who Hath Loved 248 

The Swan of the Slums 249 

Martyrdom 250 

When Thou Art Near 250 

Tempted 251 

The Resurrection 253 

The Witch of the Wine Glass 255 

Little Sweetheart 257 

Morning and Evening 258 

Zola 259 

Ponce De Leon 261 

Narcissus 277 

To Dr. J. J. Wheat 296 

A February Sunset 297 

Out of the Fold 298 

Jesus Wept 301 

Burial of an Old Slave 303 

Renan's Life of Jesus 305 

The Hymns of Charles Wesley 306 

Epitaph for Myself 307 



[ ix ] 



Though many my faults, and my passions strong, and sins 

of Self were to down, 
I have forged ahead, and my brow deserves, though never 

it wear, a crown. 

So I praise myself for the fights I fought against all the 

hosts of hell, 
Though I knew at last was a greedy grave, and a shroud 

and a funeral bell. 
I have trod the path which, I know not why, leads on to 

the lonely tomb, 
And never a man or seraph or saint more boldly has 

marched to doom. 

I care not what sage or sophist might do, what higher 

beings might say, 
What counsel of man, what wisdom of God, may have 

shown a better way ; 
Had they fought like me, had they bled like me as they 

crept through earth to die, 
I would challenge them all to take up my lot and bear it 

better than I. 

I have asked for aid from the sons of men — they have left 

me all alone ; 
I have prayed the gods for a loaf of bread — they have 

always given a stone. 
So I clenched my teeth, and doubled my fists, and I fought 

to hold my own, 
And the mobs of men, when I helped myself, have begged 

me accept a throne. 

So little I care if they say my words are vanity, pomp or 

conceit, 
For I know that Self and Self alone, can bring me a mess 

of meat. 
So the little tin gods of the old-time bards I shove in dust 

on the shelf, 
And asking no leave of a living soul, I take off my hat to 

myself. 

I xii ] 




Age Six Years 




Age Sixteen Years 




m *•> 




Age Twenty Years 




Age Tliirtvj Years 



WALTER MALONE— HIS LIFE AND WORKS 

Bx, FRAZER HOOD, PL D. 



The past quarter of a century has witnessed some 
significant additions to Southern literature. In fiction and 
in essay, Southern writers have achieved a success which 
challenges the attention of readers beyond the limits of 
national boundaries. They have broken the bands of 
provincialism, which formerly were conspicuous in so many 
of them, and to-day they write with a vision whose horizon 
is national in its sweep. In the field of poetry, also, South- 
ern genius has produced creative results; and while this 
creative activity has invented no new forms of verse, it 
has breathed into the old forms a dewy freshness and a 
wholesome sanity. 

Among Southern poets, Walter M alone ranks subordi- 
nate to none. Indeed, there are reasons — which I shall set 
forth in this paper — strong enough, it seems to me, to 
justify the conviction that he deserves the foremost place, 
not only among Southern poets, but among American 
poets as well. There is, however, an infirmity of mind, 
a kind of mental hyperopia, that blurs our perception of a 
contemporary artist and his art. We never feel quite 
certain that the image we get upon our mental retina is a 
true one, and we hesitate to hazard a judgment of values. 

European critics, viewing Poe's art, outre mer, got a 
perspective that the poet's compatriots were unable to get. 
We are still disputing among ourselves whether Walt 
Whitman is a poet at all or not, while to foreign critics he 
bulks large on the Western shores, the most original of the 

[ xiii ] 



new- world poets. Walter Malone being so near us, it 
is not to be wondered at that our envisagement of him is 
far from clear-cut and perspective. 

If our analogy between a judgment of values and a 
sense-perception be permissible, then it is further true that 
the distance required for a clear focus is directly propor- 
tional to the greatness of the achievement. Longfellow and 
Lowell needed not to be removed in time for our American 
eyes to see them clearly, but Poe and Whitman did. In 
the two former pulsed a lesser genius than glowed in the 
two latter. The beauty that the New England poets felt 
and perceived was that our familiarity with great poetry 
had already revealed to us, and their genius was rather that 
of translating into American idiom what the great masters 
had uttered in the "grand style." 

Walter Malone is one of our American poets whom 
the critics have reserved for some future attention. It may 
be that time will bury his memory "deep as the hidden 
sleep" of those who lie in some forgotten churchyard; but 
my judgment is that the future holds for him a fadeless 
crown of amaranth and gold. 



II 

Walter Malone was born February 10, 1866, in De Soto 
County, Mississippi, about thirteen miles southeast of 
Memphis, Tennessee. He was the youngest of a family of 
welve children. His father, Dr. Franklin Jefferson Ma- 
lone, was a man of culture and prominence in Mississippi, 
serving his State as a member of the Mississippi Consti- 
tutional Convention of 1868. In earlier years he had seen 
service in the Mexican War as an army surgeon. He died 
in 1873. Thus deprived of a father's care at the age of 
seven years, Walter did not have those advantages which 
the older children enjoyed; but his mother, a woman of 
rare powers, made amends for the loss as only a woman can 
do. She managed to give her younger children such edu- 
cational advantages as the local schools afforded. At the 

[ xiv ] 



age of six years Walter was initiated into the mysteries of 
formal learning at an "old-field schoolhouse," which stood 
across the State line in Tennessee, three miles from his 
home. He continued his attendance here until he was six- 
teen, trudging the distance from his home every day except 
when work on the farm required his presence there. Dur- 
ing these ten years his young soul unfolded amid the in- 
fluence of Nature. His spirit was always responsive to the 
music of birds and water brooks, to the beauty of Southern 
flowers, and to the grandeur of tree and hill. His early life 
is reminiscent of Burns who meditated in the opening fur- 
rows and caught inspiration for his earlier poems when his 
young muscles were fatigued from the toil between plow- 
handles. 

When twelve years old he made his first attempt to 
imprison his fancies and emotions in verse. Always a 
stern critic of his own work, he later destroyed all these 
boyish efforts. Between thirteen and fourteen he wrote 
several articles which were published in the Louisville 
Courier- Journal. Thus encouraged, he began, at fourteen, 
seriously to write, and continued with adolescent zeal until 
he was sixteen, when he published his first volume under 
the title, "Claribel and Other Poems." This was a book of 
three hundred pages and contained two long narrative 
poems and a number of shorter ones. While the poems are 
crude, revealing the touch of youth, they contain the 
promise and potency of awakening genius. It was the 
largest book of verse ever printed by a boy under twenty- 
one. 

In the fall of 1883 he entered the preparatory depart- 
ment of the University of Mississippi, where in due course 
he became a freshman and graduated in the class of 1887. 
He was not a student after the old time professors' ideal. 
He never liked mathematics, and until his last two years 
was a rather indifferent student, giving more time to the 
library than to the formal work of the class-room. He 
became early associated with the college magazine, and 
during his last year was its editor-in-chief. 

[ xv ] 



In 1885 he published his second volume, "The Outcast 
and Other Poems." Even a hurried reading will reveal that 
these poems are less juvenile and show a steadier power. 
This book brought forth favorable comment from Edmund 
Clarence Stedman and Oliver Wendell Holmes. John 
Greenleaf Whittier, writing to the author, said: "The 
book gives promise, but it is not what it would be were the 
author ten years older. Why, at thy age, I could not 
make a respectable rhyme." 

After his graduation, Mr. Malone was admitted to the 
bar at Oxford, Mississippi, and shortly thereafter came to 
Memphis to engage in the practice of law. He launched 
himself with a strong initiative into the practice of law, and 
until 1 891 his Muse was neglected. In the next year he 
published "Narcissus and Other Poems." Two years 
later came from the press "Songs of Dusk and Dawn." In 
1896 followed "Songs of December and June," a little 
volume of twenty lyrics; and the next year "The Coming of 
the King," a collection of eight short stories. Such writers 
as Thomas Bailey Aldrich, Charles Dudley Warner and 
Edgar Fawcett were high in their praise of this work. 

In 1897 he retired from the practice of law and moved 
to New York, where, for the next three years, he gave 
himself wholly to literary work. In 1900 he returned to 
Memphis and published "Songs of North and South," a 
collection of poems that had appeared in magazines during 
the previous three years. This volume introduced the 
author to British readers, receiving generous welcome from 
Alfred Austin, Israel Zangwill, and English and Scott re- 
viewers. In 1904 he published a complete edition of such 
of his poems as he considered worthy of perpetuating. In 
1906 appeared "Songs of East and West," a book con- 
taining twenty-seven poems, many of them being pictures 
of travel in Europe, California, Florida, Cuba, and Mexico. 
His most widely known poem, "Opportunity," was pub- 
lished in Munsey's Magazine in 1905. 

There is a pretty little incident connected with this 
poem, which the author told me of, and which very few, 

[ xvi ] 



even of his intimate friends, know. I relate it because it 
illustrates not only what I have just said, but also because 
it gives a side glance of his fondness for children. Briefly, 
the story is this: One evening while sitting with some 
friends in a cafe in New York, a little lad of six years came 
over to the table where the poet sat, and asked: "Is this 
Mr. Malone?" "Yes," relied the poet. "Well, Mr. 
Malone," began the boy, "I want to thank you." "Why 
so, my little man?" "Because, if you had not written 
'Opportunity,' I would not be here to-night." The 
father, coming up, explained how he had become discour- 
aged in life and resolved to commit suicide, but while 
arranging his affairs, the poet's "Opportunity" fell under 
his eye, and changed his whole design. A year afterwards, 
the little lad was born. 

Whatever may be the surer judgment of the critics as 
to the value of this poem, it is a lyric that awakens a re- 
sponse in the common man's breast, and makes him feel 
stronger for the day's work and superior to the day's faults 
and failures. In 1905, on petition of practically all the 
Memphis bar, Mr. Malone was appointed Judge of the 
Second Circuit Court of Shelby County, and later by elec- 
tion held the office until his death, May 18, 1915. 



Ill 



I am writing this on the fourth anniversary of his death, 
and as I write there comes to my ears the plaintive music 
of his poem, "To An Unknown Reader": 

In years to come, when I have passed away, 
Your careless glance upon this page may fall ; 

So then, my unknown reader, pause I pray, 
And hearken to my faint and far-off call. 

unknown reader, for your sake I pine ; 
Beside you let me cease my wandering. 

1 love you ; let me take your hand in mine 

And tell you stories, laugh or weep or sing. 

[ xvii ] 



From death's dark empire shall my soul depart, 
Your smile, your friendship, and your love to win; 

Behold! I come and knock upon your heart: 
For God's sake, reader, rise and let me in! 

These lines, so remindful of Beethoven's "Farewell to the 
Piano," disclose at once a boldness and a childlike uncon- 
sciousness not found in a lesser soul. 

To those of us who knew him, Mr. Malone was the most 
modest of men, in whom verily there dwelt no guile nor 
conceit. But his graces of mind were plenteous, and he 
had "a memory like the British Museum Library," and 
its material arranged as orderly. His interests were uni- 
versal, and whether the discussion, in a company of friends, 
turned to the merits of champion chess-players or to great 
events in history, to the name and habitat of some little- 
known flower or to the latest discoveries in science, he was 
equally at home, and generally astonished us by the ac- 
curacy of his knowledge. He was a keen scholar, a keen 
artist, and withal a man of modest demeanor, free from 
those eccentricities and conceits so commonly associated 
with men of genius. His poetry was the chief concern of 
his life, and he toiled at uncongenial tasks for the bread 
that perisheth, only that he might be able to give forth from 
his soul that which is imperishable. Spinoza, polishing 
lenses during the day that he might write philosophy at 
night, presents us with a companion picture. While Judge 
Malone achieved an enviable eminence in his profession, 
he never valued this success. 

From long familiarity with his poetry, and from a care- 
ful study of its qualities, I am convinced that posterity 
will make amends for the neglect into which contemporary 
readers and critics have allowed his poetry to fall. 



IV 

The poetry of Walter Malone is no ordinary verse. 
The sheer quantity of it compels notice. No poetry can 
be measured alone in terms of volume; but if the other 

[ xviii ] 



qualities that go to make great poetry are to be found also, 
the quantity is a factor that must be given its meed of 
worth. It is because I find so many evidences of exquisite 
imagery, so many instances of those characteristics of fine 
poetry that one must rather feel than describe, I have no 
timidity in asserting his claim to genius. Lovers of poetry 
delight in quoting you Browning's fine lines, 

That's the wise thrush ; he sings each song twice over, 
Lest you should think he never could recapture 
The first fine careless rapture, 

as an example of this indescribable quality of poetic power. 
In the poetry of our author are many examples of the same 
power. Describing the strange beauty and melancholy of 
submarine life, he says: 

But never trills or warbling wake those bowers; 
No sound uprises in those songless realms ; 
The petals of those blossoms never thrill 
Or tingle with embraces of the bees. 

Humming-birds seen in tropical forests are, 

bright banditti of the Southern skies 
That rifle sylvan hordes of honey dew. 

And again, take those lines descriptive of the first feelings 
of love in the adolescent heart: 

Love then was light as the feet of a fawn, 
Brilliant of brow as dazzle of dawn, 
Jocund as June, unwearied of wing, 
Hearing his heart like a goldfinch sing. 

And one more example from a Croesus-wealth that makes 
selection hard : 

And that longing for their labor in the freemen's hearts 

shall be 
Like the green blood of the springtime, tingling in the turf 

and tree. 

(Note the use of "blood" from its common association 
with color to its truer association with function.) 

[ xix ] 



The range of his poetic vision is as broad as the world 
itself. He has given us many love lyrics that burn with 
passion, many that ache with a sorrow that dews the face 
of a Niobe in tear-drops sharp as acid. There are poems 
of awakening love; there are poems of youthful love; and 
songs of wedded bliss enjoyed far into life. Then there 
are delicate portraits that glow in the bosom of his volumes 
like cameos fine-cut. Take that most beautiful of them 
all, the portrait of lovely Isabel when first her beauty burst 
upon the soul of De Soto : 

Oh, she was lovelier than an April morn, 
With April skies, and April birds and bloom, 
With April songs, and April suns and showers, 
Now laughing and now pouting, now in tears, 
But ever bringing visions of delight. 

No one but a poet unconscious of his gift would have 
hazarded such an adjectival repetition, and none but a 
master could have achieved such result. 

He loved children, and some of his most cunning work- 
manship is expended in exhibiting boy-life with its wild, 
care-free days. Here is one of his boys: 

Along the street 

His brown bare feet 
Remind me of a baby faun, 

By fern-fringed pool 

In shadows cool 
Leading a throng of fluting birds at dawn. 

No hermit thrush 

Through woodland hush 
Could trill a tune more fresh and free ; 

No mocking-bird 

More gladly heard 
Through verdant vine-clad swamps of Tennessee. 

Then there are poems of wild fancy that startle us by 
their very boldness. Take, for instance, that weird conceit 
suggested by Coleridge's line, 

Woman wailing for her Demon Lover. 
[ xx ] 



The conception is poetic to the core. After a few stanzas 
describing the overthrow of Satan in heaven and his casting 
out, the woman who had beheld his defeat speaks: 

Here I come to meet thee, Satan, ruined king whom I adore, 
Thou, my prince, my lord, my master, and mine idol 
evermore ! 

Now I see thee come to meet me, and I rush within thine 

arms, 
While my bosom bounds with passion for thy wild and 

wondrous charms. 

I, the seraph, blest and beauteous, robed in radiant starry 

H g ht ' . 

With my golden locks encircled with the lilies pearly white ; 

I, that soar on swan-like pinions, blossom-bosomed, 

flower-fair, 
I, with eyes like lucid dew-drops, twinkling in the azure air; 

I have come to meet thee, Satan, with thy wings of ashen 

gray. 
Seared with sins and seared with sorrows that shall never 

pass away! 

No excerpt from this poem can do it justice, and one must 
read it through to get the full force of its stately rhythm 
and its weird passion. 

As an illustration of his calmer mood which reveals his 
sensitiveness to friendship, the following lines, "To a 
Friend," may be recalled: 

Tormented sorely by the chastening rod, 
I muttered to myself, "There is no God!" 
But, faithful friend, I found your soul so true, 
That God revealed himself in giving you. 

Time would fail me to speak of all the themes that at- 
tracted his fancy. There are poems dealing with economic 
conditions; there are descriptive sketches of landscapes in 
many lands; sunsets burst upon us in his pages with a 
variety of forms and colors like those the Divine Artist 

[ xxi ] 



throws upon the evening sky. There are matchless poems 
on birds and flowers and trees; indeed, no poet has given us 
more Nature poetry than he. In it all one who reads is 
astonished at his wealth of simile and metaphor, at the 
music of his lines and the cooling freshness that delights on 
every page. 



V 



It has been remarked by Mr. M. W. Conolly that Judge 
Malone has given a new note to Southern literature "based 
upon Southern life, Southern scenes, and Nature as she 
appears in the South alone. The early writers of America 
harped on larks and nightingales which they had never 
heard, and on rosemary and rue which they had never seen 

The mocking-bird was practically the one Southern 

bird known to literature. . . . Judge Malone has taken 
the redbird, the bluebird, the woodpecker, the humming- 
bird, and others, and put them in the place of the feathered 
songsters of Europe of which we know nothing. He has 
taken the magnolia, the dogwood, the redbud, the passion 
flower, the trumpet flower, and others, and made them 
popular in literature." 

While it is true as Alfred Austin said that he finds in 
the verse of Judge Malone "deference to the best traditions 
of English poetry," his was no servile imitation of it, and 
one of the most priceless of these traditions was that a poet 
was never to try to picture forth anything that he had not 
first seen and felt in his own experience — a perception of 
Nature, not the preception of some one else's perception, 
is demanded by "the best traditions of English poetry." 

No one can read the poetry of Walter Malone who has 
not learned the language and felt the heart-pulse of Nature. 
He speaks in the vernacular of song-birds, thrills with the 
melody of water brooks, and palpitates with the passion 
that the flowers feel when the winds of heaven come a- woo- 
ing among them. "He came from the soil, and remained a 
son of it," as a friend expressed it. Nature was to him no 

[ xxii ] 



panorama o! painted beauty. She was a mother on whose 
breast he could sob out his sorrows, exult in the tonic of 
achievement and hope, and to whom he could 

unlock the sleepless brood 
Of fancies from his soul, their lurking place, 
Nor doubt that each would pass ne'er to return 
To one so loved, so watched, and so secure. 

He was in something more than a metaphor a child of 
Nature, taught to speak her language, cunning to interpret 
her moods, and sensitive to feel her great life. While all 
his poetry is by no means Nature poetry, it all is suffused 
with her influence. One could tell, whatever mood the 
poet was in, whether revealing the untutored soul of pagan 
brave, or exposing the ugly venom in the heart of crafty 
Spaniard, or describing the redbird darting zigzag through 
the green of forest like a flame — one could note the in- 
fluence of Nature through it all. 



VI 

When we come to study his epic poem, Hernando 
De Soto, we discover an entirely different attitude toward 
Nature. I think his treatment of Nature here discloses a 
conception not to be found anywhere else. Wordsworth 
conceived a preestablished harmony between us and the 
natural world so that Humanity and Nature can easily live 
and converse together. Tennyson, with ever- wavering 
faith, speaks sometimes as if Nature did not exist at all 
apart from our thought: "Her life the eddying life of our 
living soul." Browning conceived Nature as a wild, un- 
human, unmoral, unspiritual being who has an elemental 
life, but no soul. She has a certain kind of interest in us, 
an interest, however, not sustained. The powers that play 
in Nature, if we happen to be in harmony with them, be- 
friend us: 

Their work was done — we might go or stay, 
They relapsed to their ancient mood. 

[ xxiii ] 



In the De Soto, while Nature appears in her beneficent and 
benign aspects, often she is "red in tooth and claw." But 
even here, to Walter Malone, it was not so much a Ber- 
serker rage that moves Nature in her destructive force, 
whether in tornado or miasmas and fevers of a tropical 
swamp, as it was a godlike resentment at man's shameless 
intrusion into her sacred sanctuary. 

The Oriental bard differs widely from the Western poet 
in his treatment of Nature. In the poetry of the former, 
Nature is the great reality, man but an incident. Nature 
is vast, mysterious, transcendent; man a puny creature, 
scarcely in the thought of Nature at all, and then only as 
a despicable, sprawling thing. To the Western poet, 
Nature is but little more than a background of impalpable 
cloud and sky to his picture of man. Nature sometimes 
is the theater boards, upon which man stalks in gigantic 
strides and plays his part. Sometimes Nature is the 
Ganymede who bears the goblet to the great Olympian, 
sometimes the gentle Hebe adorning and enlivening the 
courts of men. However variant the accent, the dynamic 
stress is always on man. In the De Soto there is another 
treatment yet. Man and Nature are related not in sub- 
ordinance. They are peers. Often there are dubious 
battles waged between them. Sometimes there is a truce, 
whose term is conditioned upon the observance by each of 
the other's rights. "The contest with Nature," says the 
author, "is one which all must face; it is inevitable; 
it is one that from the cradle to the coffin ceases 
not. We may live in peace with our neighbors, or we may 
contend with them, grow weary of strife, and agree on an 
armistice. But with Nature we can never negotiate a 
truce; between us there can be no cessation of hostilities." 
How strangely out of harmony does this conception seem 
with his treatment of Nature in his earlier poems. This 
is the conception presented in his epic poem. A careful 
study of this apparent disharmony may be resolved, I 
think. If there is nothing new in his treatment of Nature 
in his earlier poetry, certainly in his epic there is. 

[ xxiv ] 



VII 

A few words must be said on the quality and literary 
value of his masterpiece, Hernando De Soto. It was the 
work of eight years. Five years before it was published I 
read it in manuscript, and the author then thought it 
would be published shortly ; but so careful an artist was he 
that he was unwilling to let it go from his hand until he 
was sure he had exhausted his powers upon it. It is a long 
poem; its author is one of our generation. These two facts 
afford sufficient evidence to the minds of many to find an 
indictment upon. But some of us are willing to overlook 
the first fault if the interest is sustained, and will be in- 
clined to hear further evidence which may mitigate the 
severity of the second. Among critics there is a diversity 
of opinion as to whether the poem has the power to hold 
one's interest. My early association with its authorship 
makes me feel incompetent to pass a judgment free from 
bias. I have resorted to a method in vogue in psychology 
study. I arranged certain tests. I read it to rather large 
audiences — one time to a woman's club, another time to 
several hundred high-school pupils, again to some fifty 
business and professional men, and finally to a small group 
of children. From the results obtained, I am convinced, 
in my own mind, that whatever other literary merits this 
epic may lack, it is a story with power to catch and hold the 
interest. The narrative is full of action, and flows with a 
strong current which does not eddy into distracting episode. 
The author is master of the story-teller's art. But some 
have criticised the poem because there is such an abundance 
of description. To my mind the criticism reveals a mis- 
conception of the author's purpose. A more careful reading 
will show that what is taken as simple description is in 
reality narrative, wherein not man, but Nature, is in action. 
Our author says: "In the life of a pioneer like De Soto, 
the fight against Nature is no mere episode, no passing phase 
of his mission. It is the beginning, the middle, and the 
end of all his labors." How else could this fight against 

[ xxv ] 



Nature be exhibited but by description? It is a descrip- 
tion, however, full of movement, and partakes of the nature 
of narration. 

It has not been my purpose to write critically of the 
poetry of Judge Malone. Mine has been the humbler task 
of registering an appreciation of his work with the hope 
that the reader will be drawn to the poems themselves. 
The poet is no longer a contemporary, and judgment may 
be the more safely pronounced. On May 18, 1915, in the 
city of Memphis, in a room looking out upon the Mississippi, 
the river he loved so well, the gentle soul of the poet passed 
into the Great Beyond. It was a fitting season for the 
passing of a poet of Nature, for in mid-May ,West Tennessee 
is riot of floral color and vocal of bird and bee. 

Let us hope that the longing pulsing through the fol- 
lowing lines from his pen has had its fruition : 

I long to soar from sod, 

And tread in glory of celestial grace ; 
To live beyond the time my grave is trod, 

Proving a crown-prince of immortal race ; 
To emulate beatitudes of God, 

To reach his Kingdom and behold His face. 



[ xxvi 1 



PREFACE TO A BOOK OF POEMS 

Forever perished seems the age of gold, 
With all the May-morn glory of the past; 

Where now the songs the minstrels sang of old, 
A-thrill with fervor like a trumpet blast? 

Ah, in those days Life sipped of morning dew 
Fresh from the bosom of a springtime bud ; 

Youth's pink-white feet on skylark pinions flew, 
All April's ardor tingling through his blood. 

Now is the sordid age of greed and gain : 

Now bloated Mammon rules the market-place; 

The Poet, like the Painter, strives in vain, — 
O glorious doom, to share their Art's disgrace! 

Ah, we are only struggling pioneers, 
To blaze the path for others yet to be ; 

Ours is the task to dig through thankless years, 
And found the temples we shall never see. 

Some time that golden age again shall come, 
The olden glory shine once more for men. 

But that far day shall dawn when we are dumb, 
And who shall mourn us, who shall miss us then? 

Far in the future, through the jealous haze, 
We see the golden city reared to Art ; 

We see its cloud-encircled turrets blaze, 
As splendid as the sunset's burning heart. 

That promised land our feet shall never tread, 

Our hands shall never pluck its flowers and fruits ; 

Our cheeks shall never flush from white to red 
From passion-pealing of its lovers' lutes. 

[ xxvii ] 



Yet in that purple age I wish one bard 
To say of me these little words of praise : 

"He plodded on through sharpened flint and shard, 
Though sordid cares pursued him all his days. 

"In darkest hours he wrought with cheerful will: 
He shared the exile of his precious Art; 

Though men denied applause, he labored still, 
Nor wrote one line to please the vulgar mart. 

"So, like a priest who guards a temple's light, 

He trimmed the lamp whose flame was nearly gone : 

He kept his vow to watch it through the night, 
And died beside it at the birth of dawn." 



[ xxviii ] 



SELECTED POEMS 

TOILER AND IDLER 

The laborer is the great high-priest of God, 

Creator like the Lord who gave him breath, 
The father of all fruits, spouse of the sod, 

The friend of life, and enemy of death. 
But he who toils not, bears a shriveled soul, 

Is fit for deserts, or for realms of rocks; 
For him no victor's palm, no race, no goal, 

Mate for the sloth, true brother to the ox. 

The man who tills the fields breathes wholesome air, 

And sleeps a sleep remorse can not affright ; 
His peace of mind is stranger to despair, 

His freedom unconfined as morning light. 
What though the Summer glares with scorching heat? 

That Winter winds his blood and bone may chill? 
His manhood scatters hardships in defeat, 

And every battle makes him stronger still. 

The brown bee flits amid the clover there, 

To make him gifts of golden honeycomb ; 
For him the cherry and the plum and pear, 

The grapevine swinging on his happy home. 
For him the daisy dripping with the dew, 

Peach-blooms above and cowslips at his feet ; 
For him the green grass and skies of blue, 

The scarlet poppies and the golden wheat. 

For him are thrushes warbling in delight 

On breezes tripping lightly as a fawn ; 
For him the swan-like noonday's wings of white, 

The pansy twilight and the primrose dawn. 

C l ] 



Selected "Poems 



For him, Spring like a virgin violet blooms, 
And Summer blossoms like a yellow rose, 

Then Autumn like an orange aster looms, 
And Winter comes, a lily of the snows. 

The tiller owns no master but his God, 

And earns by right a heritage divine ; 
A prophet, striking dust with potent rod, 

His plow makes earth gush honey, milk, and wine. 
His hillocks are the altars of the Lord, 

His granary like a pious temple stands ; 
The kingdom of the earth his rich reward, 

The scythe becomes a scepter in his hands. 

But he, who, discontented with that lot, 

Tramps through the city, vainly begging work, 
Shall find his rosy dreams a wretched blot, 

Facing worse evils than he sought to shirk. 
O pity not the tiller of the soil, 

But pity him, the straggler of the street; 
O pity not the hardened hands of toil, 

Remembering this poor wanderer's wayworn feet! 

At night the keen winds pierce his threadbare coat, 

The rain beats hard down on his dizzy head ; 
Half-mad, half -starved, he begs a rusty groat, 

When hope and pride from shivering soul have fled. 
He sees the street-lamps dripping in the rain, 

The engine hoarsely thundering through the night ; 
The dragon Town is heedless of his pain, 

And spits upon him in his piteous plight. 

He lounges in the city parks, and sees 

Ten thousand like himself, in dirt and rags — 

Poor stranded wrecks by seas of miseries, 

Surrendered ships, with tattered, conquered flags! 

[ 2 ] 



Selected To ems 



Night comes again, and hungry still, he goes 
Half-crazed for lack of sleep, in dull despair, 

To freeze to death when fall the Winter snows, 
Or plunge, self -murdered, in the river there. 

The idler is a menace unto heaven, 

A misery to himself, a foe to man, 
Unsettled, discontented, dumbly driven, 

Drainer of life-blood since the world began. 
No burden breaks the back like idleness, 

No toil is half so hard, no strain so great, 
No curse of care has half so much distress, 

No armored foe a more portentous threat. 

Ashamed of toil, he wooes no fruit from earth, 

He beggars those who look to him for aid, 
And spurred by foolish pride, scorns homely worth, 

Longing for camp and court, for reeking blade. 
He can not blame one being but himself 

If he should crawl with creatures of the mud ; 
For he who plows is more than prince of pelf, 

A nobler Knight than any man of blood. 



MEMORIAL DAY 

Once more we gather under skies of May, 
When lilac blossoms and when violet blows, 

And on these grassy graves we twine a spray 
Of Northern lily and of Southern rose. 

Once more we hear the bluebird's song afloat, 

The thrush's piping in the dewy dell; 
We thrill to hear the Northern robin's note, 

And stand ensnared by Southern mock-bird's spell. 

[ 3 ] 



Selected Poems 



Once more the winds through odorous orchards blow, 
The creamy hawthorns through the fences twine. 

See ! all the sunrise splendors are aglow 
Like cataracts of red and golden wine. 

We bring a wreath, O martyrs numberless, 

Who perished that your country still might live ; 

Who fought and bled, the unborn babe to bless, 
That we should still be brothers, and forgive. 

But now we come, not as in bygone years, 

When anger poisoned sorrow through and through ; 

When no one cried, with blended love and tears, 
"Forgive them, for they know not what they do!" 

Thank God, those days have now forever passed, 
With all their strife of party, clique and clan ; 

The Northerner, the Southerner, at last 
Is simply, solely an American. 

On Santiago summits we unite 

The grizzled foes of Chickamauga's day; 

The hatreds of a Shiloh sink from sight 
Beneath the waters of Manila Bay. 

Above your graves exultant anthems swell, 

When Peace and Love have healed the battle's blows ; 

We thrill with pride to think those fought so well 
With these, so brave to overcome such foes. 

Peace unto Grant, the advocate of peace, 
To Stonewall, of the valor-vibrant name; 

Peace unto Lee, whose honors shall not cease, 
To Lincoln, of the everlasting fame! 
1899. 



[ 4 ] 



Selected Poems 



FORGOTTEN HEROES 

I would sing a song to the unknown heroes, who have 

striven and battled and bled, 
To the unknown heroes, existing obscure, who are left 

forgotten when dead, 
Who have gone to their graves for you and for me, and 

are sleeping in silent ranks 
With never a wreath of laurel, or medal, or badge for a 

nation's thanks. 

I would sing a song to the heroes neglected so long by you 

and by me, 
In the pestilent tropic marshes, on the blistering ships in 

the tropic sea, 
To the yoemen, the stokers, the gunners, with perilous 

duties and beggarly pay, 
As we shout for the admirals, generals, captains, who 

bear all the honors away. 

There in the stifling holds of the ships, half-naked and 

fainting in fearful heat, 
And there in the matted vines, or swordgrass stubble that 

pierces their half -shod feet, 
And there in the rattle of rifles, where the cynical bullets 

go snarling by, 

For me and for you they swelter, for me and for you they 
reel and they die. 

No Congress shall ever reward them, no nation ever be 
filled with their fame, 

Though they sweat and they swoon and they perish in 

the pitiless flood or flame ; 
They are only the unknown heroes, and the mob- world 

neither heeds nor cares, 
Though they do and dare for their country more feats than 

a million millionaires. 

[ 5 ] 



Selected Toems 



They pant by the ship's fierce furnace, that you and I may 

rest at ease in the shade, 
They rake and they rout the foeman, that you and I may 

laugh at his broken blade, 
They laurel the brows of others, though their own triumph 

they never shall see, 
They fight and they bleed and they fall forsaken, for the 

sake of you and me. 

I would sing a song to the heroes who have met their doom 

on the other side, 
Whose plainings are drowned in our paeans, whose pangs 

forgot in our flush of pride ; 
So then, O dying foemen, to your sinking ships and your 

flaming flags still true, 
I have brought you a branch of laurel, and a heartfelt song 

that is all for you. 



ABRAHAM LINCOLN 

A blend of mirth and sadness, smiles and tears; 
A quaint knight-errant of the pioneers ; 
A homely hero, born of star and sod ; 
A Peasant-Prince; a Masterpiece of God. 



ROBERT E. LEE 

As strong to smite as thunderbolts above, 
And yet as gentle as a blameless dove. 
O star of honor, flower of chivalry, 
Our highest hope should be to be like thee. 

[ 6 ] 



Selected Poems 



FORREST IN MEMPHIS 

August 21, 1864. 

Forrest has come from the country down 
A-raiding the streets of Memphis town; 

He comes post-haste, a-whiz and a-whir, 
With clank of sabre and clink of spur. 

Swooping he speeds with his fearless boys 
In a cloud of dust, in a storm of noise, 

With their slouching hats and their coats of gray, 
Through the half-wake town at the peep o' day. 

Ahead of them all the leader comes 
With hurry of hoofs and din of drums, 

Gallant and grand on his nimble mare, 

With his coal-black beard and his iron-gray hair. 

Startled from sleep is the Yankee host, 
And every man seeks his appointed post; 

The town is a- whirl in its vague alarms, 
There's a shout to wake and a call to arms. 

"Forrest is here!" is the sentry's cry, 

As the gray troopers go like a hurricane by; 

"Forrest is here!" men shout on the street, 
As they see his mare with her flying feet. 

"Forrest is here!" all the newsboys call, 

"Forrest is here!" all the bootblacks bawl, 
"Forrest is here!" cries the red cock, "hark!" 
'Forrest is here!" all the watch-dogs bark. 



<<i 



Washburn, aroused from his soft, snug bed, 

Sans trousers, sans boots, sans waistcoat, has fled; 

Like a flag of truce, with the winds a-flirt, 
There flaunts in his rear the tail of his shirt. 

C 7 ] 



Selected Toems 



Forrest rides straight through the hotel door, 

And in Centaur style he paces the floor ; 
Dismounting, he orders a drink and cigar, 

As in bygone days at the hotel bar. 

"Come, give us a drink — some mint if you please, 
My boys, too, are here; give a drink to these; 

Though their pockets aren't puffed with dollars and dimes, 
You'll give us a nip for the sake of old times. 

"No sugar, no water, stop! there is enough! 

Your health, my old fellow: Don't be in a huff; 
And now for a smoke ; we must go, you see, 

So now, Mike, my friend, charge it all to me.' 



»> 



Forrest remounts on his restless steed, 

And soon with his boys has started a-speed ; 

The kettle drums rattle, the bass drums beat, 
The streets are a-din with the tramp of feet. 

No matter! he leaves as quick as he came, 

And with hot-haste hoofs the flints are a-flame ; 

Though the bluecoats rush, they have come too late, 
And Forrest glides safe through the city gate. 

And the bluecoat boys they follow him fast, 
But they lose the trace, and return at last; 

Too swift and too sly ! So none of his foes 
Will follow the path where Forrest goes. 



[ 8 ] 



Selected Poems 



THE RETURN OF DEWEY 

A Nation lifts her voice to greet him home 

Who raised her flag where East and West are one, 
Where blends the rising with the setting sun. 

For this knight-errant of the ocean foam 
Are cheers from cottage and from marble dome. 

From sea to sea is heard the cry, "Well done! 
Among our millions, rivals you have none, 

Recalling triumphs sung by Greece and Rome." 

His country offers him a laurel bough, 

Returning round the planet's purple rim ; 
But though she seeks to do him honor now, 

Beside his fame such little gifts grow dim: 
He placed a greener wreath upon her brow 

Than any wreath which she can give to him. 

From pine-plumed mountains by Wisconsin lake, 

From citrons orchard by Floridian seas ; 
Where white Alaska's rills and rivers freeze, 

Where Porto Rico's orchard-blooms awake; 
From rocks of Maine, where hoary billows break, 

From Georgia swamps, where jasmines scent the breeze; 
From Vermont valleys, green Kentucky leas, 

We greet with pride our Nelson and our Blake. 

Then make the greetings more resounding still, 
To him whose gaze was onward and above. 

For they whose hearts heroic deeds can thrill, 
Have found the White Ideal, like a dove, 

And they who honor courage, faith and skill, 

Have crowned themselves in crowning him they love. 



[ 9 ] 



Selected Poems 



AMERICA AND ENGLAND 

One of the highest compliments paid to the late Walter Malone is con- 
tained in Book 29, Chapter 161 (last page) of Ridpath's History of the 
World, and this consists of coupling his name not only with those of the 
greatest present-day poets of England and America, hut the author closes 
this part of his history with a quotation from Walter Malone. The passage 
is as follows : 

"The British writers of the period (at the close of the Nineteenth Cen- 
tury) took up our favorite characters and published panegyrics on Wash- 
ington and Lincoln and Grant and Lee. Mutual admiration was fanned, and 
the bards broke out with their rhapsodies. William Watson and Alfred 
Austin, the new poet laureate, were answered in America by Robert Under- 
wood Johnson, Thomas Bailey Aldrich, and other American poets of first 
rank, who strove to express the prevailing aspiration of G-reat Britain and 
the United States for the closer touch and a more cordial fraternity. Among 
the expressions of poetic enthusiasm rising into the realm of race affinities 
and international relations, we may select the following Sonnet by Walter 
Malone as a fitting conclusion to this brief section of the History of the 
British Empire: 

"Beneath the arctic peaks of silent snow; 

Through tropic isles enwreathed with orange blooms ; 

Where brown Gibraltar like a giant looms; 

Where furnaces of red Sahara glow ; 

In spicy groves, where softest breezes blow; 

In tangled Hindu jungles' deepest glooms; 

By mummied Pharaohs' immemorial tombs, — 

The Saxon legions conquer every foe. 

"So Alfred's spear and Nelson's sword shall be 
Guards for the flag that Washington unfurled ; 
With might of Cromwell, Lincoln, Blake and Lee 
Our gauntlet at invaders shall be hurled ; 
Lords of the land and emperors of the sea, 
The Eagle and the lion face the world!" 

AMERICA AT MANILA 

Through mazy moonbeams of the secret night 
The ships of Dewy reach Manila Bay. 
The tropic sun leaps forth in sudden light, 
And lo, the dawn-flushed city far away! 
Then fleets and forts like waking giants scowl, 
The swift projectiles whizz and burst a-whirl, 
The batteries like ferocious lions growl, 
A hundred guns their hoarse defiance hurl. 

[ 10 ] 



Selected Toems 



Then thunder answers thunder, shock on shock, 
Shell answers shell, blood-curdling shriek on shriek, 
Gun answers gun, from shuddering ships a-rock, 
And flaming decks with crimson rivers reek. 
A storm of steel tears down Spain's haughty crest, 
Her glory sinks a-blaze in blood and tears ; 
The olden East has met the youthful West 
Rewriting history of six thousand years. 

Men say the age is sordid, yet we find 
No Spartans ever breathed from breasts more bold, 
No doughtier Norsemen fought with wave and wind, 
No true knights lived with hearts of purer gold. 
Lo, ancient Asia stands in mute amaze; 
Few deeds like this Japan hath ever told ; 
Memorial China turns with startled gaze; 
Arabia sees come true her dreams of old. 

Far from the sunrise of their native West, 
They wake the world at thunder of their guns — • 
What glory added to your country's crest, 
O proudest of the proudest of her sons! 
With regal riches in her kingdom wide, 
With untold treasures ever at her call, 
Columbia, like Cornelia, points with pride 
To you, her jewels, prized above them all. 

These valorous vikings leave transcendent names 
To live through ages that are yet to come, 
Though records perish in the floods and flames, 
Though marbles crumble, and though lips grow dumb, 
As long as day shall dawn on shores and seas 
Where they have won Fame's chaplet, Honor's crown, 
So long shall sun of glory shine on these, 
True heroes, everlasting in renown. 



[ 11 ] 



Selected Poems 



THE BATTLE 

At first a few blasts shake the startled air, 
And then a hundred burst in serried flame, 
While all the Earth is quaking in its fear 
And all the hills are rocking to their base. 
The iron balls are rushing, crushing by, 
And all is ruin where they quiver past ; 
They scatter leaves like fierce December winds, 
And giant trees come crashing to the ground ; 
The stones are splintered high upon the hills, 
The sod is ploughed, the sky is dim with dust; 
The baleful bombs are bursting far and near, 
And frightened echoes answer back the sounds. 
It seems as if the ancient days of Earth 
Have now returned with all their giant brood, 
And all the Titans, hurled from lofty heaven, 
Are struggling with the Thunderer on his throne. 

THE CAPTURED BATTLESHIP 

In days long past no happier ship than I 

Flung forth her empire's banner to the breeze; 

No bolder bark withstood a stormy sky, 
With fiercer ardor fought the foaming seas. 

But then at last a day of evil came 

On which we met the onslaught of the foe. 

Oh, who shall tell the story of my shame, 
My desolation, my disgrace, my woe? 

My hull was splintered by their bursting shells, 
My tottering turrets down the deck were hurled ; 

I heard my dying seamen's shrieks and yells, 
As red flames through the black smoke waved and 
whirled. 

[ 12 ] 



Selected Poems 



I saw my gunners fall beside their guns, 

I saw my captain, sword in hand, drop dead; 

Shot after shot struck down my splendid sons, 
And splashed my bosom with a frightful red. 

Ah, could I then have foundered in the flood, 

And won the glorious death that waits the brave! 

Could I have sunk, baptized in precious blood, 
To endless honor in an ocean grave ! 

But no, they took me to their far-off shore, 

And nailed their haughty standard to my mast; 

I served my king, my fatherland, no more; 
I fought the flag I bled for in the past! 

So, like a Judas, I must sail the sea, 

A traitor to the master loved so well ; 
A hated outcast, still I flee and flee, 

Around me ocean — in my heart a hell ! 

And since that time, when days of peace have come, 
I sometimes meet old comrade-ships I knew; 

Ah, how they spurn me as they spurn the scum, 

And pass me, shamed, and shrinking from their view! 

Sometimes at dusk I hear my sailors call, 

And see their hands up-beckoning from the deep ; 

"Oh, come!" they tell me, "show them after all, 
Your faith, your honor, you will die to keep!" 

God grant some night an awful storm shall rise, 
And give me chance for vengeance on this foe ; 

How I should gloat to hear their craven cries, 
As I should pitch to take them all below! 

Then I should shout above their last wild yell, 

"I bring them, sons, a sacrifice to you! 
They lied who said I did not love you well ; 

O darling sailor boys, my soul is true!" 

[ 13 ] 



Selected Toerns 



CUBA FREE 

Like Cinderella in her tattered gown, 
She sits barefooted in the ashes there, 

Robbed of her sceptre and her throne and crown, 
A beggar-child, once fairest of the fair. 

Take courage, little orphan! There shall be 
A morn of triumph for thy night of woes ; 

There is a necklace and a ring for thee, 
A silken garment and a wreath of rose. 

Like Juliet in her old ancestral halls, 

Beset by foemen and their treacherous spies, 

She gazes at the grim, forbidding walls, 

And spends the weary day in sobs and sighs. 

Fear not! For Freedom is thy Romeo, 
And he shall snatch thee from thy hateful cell, 

Though three-score thousand vassals bid him go, 
And three-score thousand churls stand sentinel. 

O captive maiden, though thy castle tower 
Be girt with fifty battlements of stone, 

Though flaming dragons should surround thy bower, 
Thy lover soon shall win thee for his own. 

So thou shalt come forth blushing by his side, 
From dungeon, iron gate, and granite wall, 

His fairy princess and his beauteous bride — 
For he shall woo and wed thee, spite of all. 



[ 14 ] 



Selected Toems 



A NIGHT IN CUBA 

Far out to sea the home-bound seabirds wing, 

Dim in brief twilight of the tropic day; 
Then, one by one, lights of the city swing 

A sparkling semicircle round the bay. 

Above me, from its broad-leaved sheath of green 

A great banana hangs its purple husk; 
Beside me, like a seraph half unseen, 

An odorous oleander haunts the dusk. 

The moon seems fallen from her throne on high, 
So clear and close she comes to earthly view, 

And in the blue corolla of the sky 
Canopus quivers like a drop of dew. 

A-thrill with passion, pierced with bliss and pain, 

A light guitar obeys a lover's hands, 
And pours a fervid and heart-broken strain, 

Now sweet, now bitter, from its trembling strands. 

O lovelorn youth, your dark-brown liquid eyes 
Need sweet caresses of the dews of sleep : 

Your lips were made for laughter, not for sighs; 
Youth comes to gladden, not to make you weep! 

Youth's wild young feet were made to dance for joy; 

Youth's sweet wild heart was made to leap with bliss; 
O revel in your glory, splendid boy, 

For all the world is craving for your kiss ! 

In Cuban skies, the palm's imperial crest 
Lifts plumes forever free from winter snows ; 

No frost shall ever blight the lily's breast, 
Nor dim the glory of the ardent rose. 

C 15 ] 



Selected Poems 



Remember, while that flower is free from frost, 
That bud forever free from winter blight, 

Youth, once escaping, is forever lost, 

His feet have wings more swift than swallows' flight! 



MY FIRST BOOK 

Poor little volume, awkard, rough and crude, 
Now soiled and battered like a tarnished toy! 
Yet thou wert once my childhood's pride and joy 
Before contemptuous critics might intrude ; 
And so I treasure still thy verses rude, 
As some poor mother loves her first-born boy, 
Who comes deformed, her high hopes to destroy, 
And fill her breast with sad solicitude. 

Still, I was happy in those perished years, 
Ere Sin had lured me onward to her snare, 
While now my soul is racked with fitful fears, 
And Sorrow makes my gloomy heart her lair. 
O for thy childish joys, to dry my tears, 
Thy childish hopes, to soothe my dark despair! 



TO AN UNKNOWN READER 

In years to come, when I have passed away, 
Your careless glance upon this page may fall ; 

So then, my unknown reader, pause, I pray, 
And hearken to my faint and far-off call. 

O youth, as graceful as a willow bough, 

As gladsome as a fawn with nimble feet ; 
O youth, with noble alabaster brow, 

Flushed with your morning splendor, fresh and sweet :- 

[ 16 ] 



Selected Poems 



Dear boy, mine ears shall never know your voice, 
Mine eyes shall never know your princely grace, 

And I shall never in your smile rejoice, 
And never, never see your fine frank face. 

O maiden, with the starry eyes of brown, 

With golden ringlets, peach-bloom cheeks aglow; 

maiden, wearing love's and beauty's crown, 
As radiant as a sunrise over snow : — 

Dear Girl, I never by your side shall tread, 
And never shall I hear your gentle sighs : 

1 never shall behold your lips of red, 

And never, never see your splendid eyes. 

I love you, though our paths shall never meet, 
Though you shall flourish after I have fled, 

Though living voices seem to you more sweet 
Than lays of him deserted with the dead. 

For you, the birds and blossoms of the day, 
For you, the brilliance of the banquet halls; 

For me, the lonesome churchyard, old and gray, 
For me, the prison under charnel walls. 

For you, the light, the life, the music, mirth, 

For you love's triumph and love's sweet, sweet pain ; 

For me, a pillow in the gloomy earth, 

For me, the sobbing of the midnight rain. 

Will you neglect me in that far-off day? 

Shall I forgotten and forsaken lie? 
Ah, then my heart should bleed, though turned to clay, 

And that would be another death to die. 

unknown reader, for your sake I pine ; 
Beside you let me cease my wandering. 

1 love you ; let me take your hand in mine, 

And tell you stories, laugh or weep or sing. 

[ 17 ] 



Selected "Poems 



For you I suffered in far-distant days ; 

For you I lost man's favor, maiden's hand; 
For you my feet forsook their boyhood ways ; 

For you I wandered through the stranger's land. 

From death's dark empire shall my soul depart, 
Your smile, your friendship, and your love to win; 

Behold! I come and knock upon your heart: 
For God's sake, reader, rise and let me in! 



THE HUMBLER POETS 

The critic wonders why the lowly bards 

Still write and write when no one seems to read, 

When fame and fortune still refuse rewards, 

And when the world gives but a wreath of weed. 

But still, Sir Critic, they have done their best, 

And more than that not Shakespeare's self has done; 

For while God gave ten talents to the rest, 
To these poor poets He has given but one. 

And if a lowly singer dries one tear, 
Or soothes one humble human heart in pain, 

Be sure his homely verse to God is dear, 
And not one stanza has been sung in vain. 

So when they give their humble songs of praise, 
Their simple lines find favor in His sight, 

And when He loves to hear their little lays, 
Rebuke not, for His spirit sayeth, "Write!" 

They do not come as kings and queens of song, 
Surrounded by the pomp of spears and shields, 

But patient peasants, suffering scorn and wrong, 
To labor in His vineyards and his fields. 

[ 18 ] 



Selected Toems 



Theirs not the strain of thrushes' golden throats 
That haunt the soul with dreamings of delight, 

Nor peerless mock-birds' palpitating notes, 

That thrill the morning and the noon and night; 

But like the robins, with their hopeful trill, 
They bring first tidings of the coming spring, 

Or, like brown snow-birds in the winter chill, 
They cheer us when their brothers will not sing. 

They come not like the roses, winged with fire, 
In scarfs of scarlet or in gowns of gold, 

Nor like the lilies, spotless in attire, 

Whose leaflets like a seraph's plumes unfold; 

But, like wild cowslips, fresh from nature's woof, 

That make a poet of a farmer boy, 
Or daisies on a dusty city roof, 

That give a poor sick working-woman joy. 

Then sing on, humble poet! God will hear, 

And He will praise you for your work well done ; 

Then, when you see Him, you may find no peer 
Among the throngs that sing around His Throne. 



THE POET TO HIS BOOK 

I send thee forth upon an unknown sea, 

Where many a bark hath perished long before. 

In thee, my ship, I put the heart of me, 
To sail, or sink from sight forevermore. 

My treasures all are there like silken bales, 
Ambitions, aspirations, fancies, fears, 

And in thy cargo, under snowy sails, 

Are all my joys and smiles and hopes and tears. 

[ 19 ] 



Selected Toems 



I see thy white breast, like a stately swan, 
Go forth to brave the wild waves of the deep, 

When summer skies are rosy with the dawn, 
And all deceitful tempests seem asleep. 

God grant thee strength to live through stormy shocks, 
God guide thee ever under Summer skies, 

And send thee safely by the reefs and rocks 
To ever-blooming isles of Paradise. 

Mayhap thy verse in ages yet to come 

Shall tell my secrets unto alien ears, 
When these poor lips have lain for centuries dumb 

And I have mouldered for a thousand years ; 

When she to whom in vain my love is told 
No longer reigns a Princess young and proud, 

When clods have covered all her locks of gold 
And starry eyes are hidden in her shroud. 

And then perchance when all our tribes have fled, 
When all the sceptres of the earth are rust, 

When all the kingdoms of our day are dead, 
And all our cities crumbled into dust ; 

When other nations with another tongue 

Have overcome the nations of to-day, 
When heroes now unknown are praised and sung, 

And unborn poets hold the world in sway ; 

When empires of the Australasian seas 

Have stolen Europe's light and Europe's soul, 

And when the traveler knows all mysteries 
From Afric jungle to the Northern pole; 

When crumbling idols, wreathed with weeds and vines, 
Gaze from the ruined temples of to-day, 

When strange, new gods are throned in other shrines, 
And all our earth and heaven have passed away ; — 

[ 20 ] 






Selected Poems 



Then may my thoughts in others live again, 
A million bosoms may my transports share, 

A million friends may feel my joy and pain, 
A million lovers feel my deep despair ; 

And gentle maids may give me soulful sighs 
For true love offered that was not returned, 

May hearken to my fervent melodies, 
And sob at learning how my bosom burned ; 

And I will tell to all the sons of men 

How fair the maiden whom I now adore, 

And they shall hearken to my story then, 
And learn how I grew sad forevermore ; 

And they shall know my hours of loneliness, 
My true heart's anguish and unheeded sighs, 

And how she slew my hopes of happiness 

With daggers of her splendor-streaming eyes. 



TO A POET 

He greatly errs who hopes to win the bays 

Without a battle and without a scar, 
To walk among the lilies all his ways, 

Or lie in sloth, yet reach and seize a star. 

O youth, who knockest at the gate of Fame, 
Long must thy waiting and thy watching be ; 

Beside that gate, with two-edged sword of flame, 
A Shape stands guarding that shall challenge thee. 

Long years shall pass, and find thee waiting still, 
With eyes grown dim, and bonny locks turned gray; 

Long years shall pass, and high upon a hill 
The palace that thou seekest far away! 

[ 21 ] 



Selected Poems 



Long years shall pass, and then the shades of night 
Shall rust the golden twilight into brown ; 

Long years shall pass, and in the fading light 
Far, far away shall shine the promised crown. 

Who weds the Muse must others all forsake, 
Who takes her hand must never look behind ; 

He must not falter, though his heart may break, 
To all allurements deaf and dumb and blind. 

To far, far places must thy feet be turned, 
Where strangers only meet thee with a scowl, 

When thy brave heart, which once with ardor burned, 
Shall seem to throb beneath a sable cowl. 

The love thou longest for may be denied, 
Thy soul without a comrade evermore, 

No one to cheer thee, treading at thy side, 
No fair-haired children playing at thy door. 

Old friends will say, when other friends have fled, 
"Forsake the hopeless task thy soul hath sworn! 

Poor and neglected, thou dost want for bread, 
Thy coat is threadbare and thy cloak is worn." 

Like England's Alfred, fleeing in disguise, 
And hotly hunted, planning desperate schemes, 

A hag may harry with her shrewish cries 

For letting cakes burn as you dream your dreams. 

But yet, like Douglas with the heart of Bruce, 
Keep safe thy treasures, scorning still to fly; 

That tempter spurn who would thy soul seduce, 
And fight to win, or with thy Charge to die. 



[ 22 ] 



Selected Toems 



THE DEATH OF POETRY 

They tell us that the poet's day is past, 

That Song no more shall gush from human heart; 

They tell us all the old dreams must depart, 

The old ideals by the way be cast. 

What babbling folly! Frailest dreams outlast 

The noisiest jargon of the mightiest mart; 

Great empires crumble, yet the realm of Art, 

Unconquered, glorious, stands forever fast. 

When Spring comes not in triumph as of yore, 
When Earth's last rose her last sweet leaf hath shed; 
When oceans cease to swell, and peaks to soar, 
When man and maid no longer woo and wed ; 
When starry skies proclaim their God no more, — 
Not till that day shall Poesie be dead. 

SONNET 

ON MY TWENTY-FIRST BIRTHDAY 

February 10, 1887 

The restless years at last have reached this day, 

When youth must leave me, never to return, 
When Nature's kindly face grows cold and stern, 

And life seems short, which once stretched far away. 
No longer shall I rove through fields of May; 

New toils and cares are mine, hard truths to learn, 
Which ever faster fall from Sorrow's urn, 

Since life no longer means a childish play. 

O Voiceless Future! what fate dost thou hide? 

Hast thou a tale of darkness or of light? 
Shall sin and sorrow snare my feet untried, 

And shall I stand or fall before their might? 
But lose or win, or weal or woe betide, 

All is forgotten soon in endless night. 

[ 23 ] 



Selected Poems 



THE READING BOY 

Sunk in the cushion of a high arm-chair, 
A volume resting where his knees are crost, 

With one hand slowly fumbling through his hair, 
There sits the boy in magic pages lost. 

At times he lifts a grave, though youthful face, 
Revealing depths of eyes of liquid brown ; 

He seems a traveler from some far-off place 
Who flees us as his flitting glance turns down. 

O dreamy boy, with fair May-morning brow, 
What realms of wonders lure your restless feet? 

In what far kingdom are you treading now? 

What distant ocean bears your wandering fleet? 

You sail with Sinbad through enchanted seas, 

Your pockets stuffed with diamonds from his caves ; 

You and Aladdin gather gems from trees ; 
You give your orders to a thousand slaves. 

With Crusoe you have rifled rich old wrecks, 
You tame his parrot and you herd his goats ; 

With Captain Kidd you rake the foeman's decks, 
And smiling, cut freebooting rivals' throats. 

Columbus-like, you find another world, 
You help Magellan sail the globe around ; 

Your flags with Drake and Raleigh float unfurled 
From Dutch Guiana unto Puget Sound. 

You sit with Alexander on his throne, 

Yet conquer other worlds beyond his wake ; 

With Caesar you have bridged the Rhine and Rhone, 
Yet worn the crown which Caesar dared not take. 

[ 24 ] 



Selected Poems 



And yet, my sturdy boy, you soon shall see 
Youth's peerless poem dwindle into prose; 

And soon your nimble feet, so wild and free, 
Shall bleed from thorns of each caressing rose. 

Boy-Caesar, in the Future's sullen shade, 

Some envious Casca plans his traitorous part ; 

Some lean and hungry Cassius whets his blade, 
Some much-loved Brutus waits to stab your heart. 

Yet I salute you, ere your dreams go wrong; 

To you, young master, see my head bowed down; 
O prince of romance, story, and of song, 

O lord of gladness, glory and renown! 



THE WHISTLING BOY 

So keen, so clear, 
Falls on the ear 

The wild, sweet pipings of his lips, 
So sharp, so tart, 
I thrill and start, 

And Fancy tingles to her finger-tips. 

The dingy town 
With walls of brown, 

With grimy streets and pavements gray, 
Its rush and roar 
I note no more, 

And all its fierce commotions pass away. 

Along the street 
His brown, bare feet 

Remind me of a baby faun, 
By fern-fringed pool 
In shadows cool 

Leading a throng of fluting birds at dawn. 

[ 25 ] 



Selected Poems 



No hermit thrush 
Through woodland hush 

Could trill a tune more fresh and free ; 
No mocking bird 
More gladly heard 

Through verdant vine-clad swamps of Tennessee. 

I feel a breeze 
Through cherry trees, 

O'er dandelions wet with dew, 
And on a rail 
I hear a quail 

Gladden an old peach orchard through and through 

Through hazy tears 
I see old years 

When I too, happy as a bird, 
By bubbling streams 
Dreamed boyish dreams — 

The dear, dead dreams, so sweet and so absurd. 

IN AN OLD LIBRARY 

In this old farmhouse garret where I stray, 

A refugee from worries of the town, 
I dig and delve the livelong summer day 

Through ancient volumes, dusty, worn and brown. 

On dingy panes a hornet fumes and frets, 
A beetle thumps the wall with sudden thud ; 

A wasp hangs captive in a spider's nets 

A dirt-daub, singing, moulds his house of mud. 

A mantel holds two antiquated clocks, 

Where scampering mice go playing hide-and-seek; 
A wren, snug-nested in an empty box, 

Sits calm and quiet while her fledglings squeak. 

[ 26 ] 



Selected Poems 



Here, like a vein of purest virgin gold 

Deep-hidden in the desert rock and sand, 

Are all the treasures of the days of old, 

Brought by the Great and Good from every land. 

Here all the friends of youth (for youth alone 
Can make the friendships that are sure to last) 

Soothe once again the heart half turned to stone, 
With old enchantments that I thought were past. 

Here, like a pirate at his secret cave, 
I dig my buried ingots from the junk; 

And, like a diver, from an ocean grave 
I raise the Spanish galleons that I sunk. 

Here all the wise sit in serene array, 

Where Plato's words flow forth in honeyed sweets; 
I see the face of Goldsmith and of Gray, 

I walk with Shelley and I talk with Keats. 

O magic Past, you woo me from To-day; 

The frenzied world outside is lost to view. 
Old friends are best ! I tread this quiet way, 

Forsaking not the old to win the new. 

Like mellow wine in cobwebbed cellars stored, 
Here burn the suns of long-forgotten years ; 

To-day I revel in their precious hoard 

Of love and laughter, gladness, grief and tears. 



OPPORTUNITY 

They do me wrong who say I come no more 
When once I knock and fail to find you in ; 

For every day I stand outside your door, 
And bid you wake, and rise to fight and win. 

[ 27 ] 



Selected Poems 



Wail not for precious chances passed away, 
Weep not for golden ages on the wane ! 

Each night I burn the records of the day, — 
At sunrise every soul is born again ! 

Laugh like a boy at splendors that have sped, 
To vanished joys be blind and deaf and dumb; 

My judgments seal the dead past with its dead, 
But never bind a moment yet to come. 

Though deep in mire, wring not your hands and weep; 

I lend my arm to all who say "I can!" 
No shame-faced outcast ever sank so deep, 

But yet might rise and be again a man ! 

Dost thou behold thy lost youth all aghast? 

Dost reel from righteous Retribution's blow? 
Then turn from blotted archives of the past, 

And find the future's pages white as snow. 

Art thou a mourner? Rouse thee from thy spell ; 

Art thou a sinner? Sins may be forgiven ; 
Each morning gives thee wings to flee from hell, 

Each night a star to guide thy feet to heaven. 



THE WORLD IS MY HOME 

I travel to East, I wander to West; 

Each land that I see is dear to my breast. 

I greet the green hills as I float down the Rhine, 

The vineyards of France I love as if mine. 

With rapture the castles of England I see, 

And Switzerland's peaks are old friends to me; 

A freeman of Athens, a tribune of Rome, 

All men are my brothers, the world is my home. 

[ 28 ] 



Selected Poems 



Let Sultans and Czars make war if they will, 

But let their own blood on the battlefield spill ; 

For none but the Fool will lift up his arm 

To murder the man who has done him no harm. 

Let the bigot cry out for a bloody crusade, 

To pierce heathen hearts with his sanctified blade ; 

From mosque of the Nile to Saint Peter's dome 

All men are my brothers, the world is my home. 

Wherever we meet, on sea or on sod, 

We are brethren of Christ, we are children of God. 

They may prattle of Codes, or prate of their Creeds — 

I care not for these, but for brotherly deeds. 

They may boast of their Church, their Clique or their Clan- 

I but yearn for the touch of a true fellow-man. 

So my heart still repeats, wherever I roam, 

All men are my brothers, the world is my home. 



OMAR IN HEAVEN 

Year after year I wait, reposing here 

Among the Faithful, by the Prophet blest; 

A stranger now to grief, remorse and fear, 

My one-time restless heart is wreathed in rest. 

The years glide on, and still they find me free 
From every care that dogs the feet of men ; 

No sun on desert sand, no storm at sea, 
Shall ever come to vex my soul again. 

No clouded skies on pages ashen-gray 

Reflect heart-breaking annals of the earth ; 

The Judas-kisses all have passed away, 

With all the madness that eclipsed our mirth. 

[ 29 ] 



Selected Toems 



Here all the year is April, May or June, 

With bud and blossom free from every blight ; 

Here all the day is everlasting noon, 
With glory never dimming in the night. 

No thorns beset the beauty of the rose, 
No sweet is ever tinctured with a sour ; 

We pluck no fruits, — a heavenly zephyr blows 
And shakes the mellow apple from its bower. 

No leaflet ever withers on the tree, 
No bulbul song on desert waste is lost; 

From drought the date and olive flourish free, 
No tulip ever shudders from the frost. 

No traveler's camel pants and kneels to die 
As hot siroccos fling their fiery dust ; 

No sun-scorched famine makes of earth and sky 
A brazen oven and a blackened crust. 

Here bubbling fountains, cold as mountain snow, 
Refresh the pilgrim mad with feverish thirst; 

Here verdant forests dim the noontide glow 
For caravans from white-hot sands accurst. 

Songs can not sing the glories here on high, 
The white, white splendor of this blest estate; 

One might rejoice ten thousand times to die 
To peep one instant through its jeweled gate. 

No hunter here pursues the swift gazelle, 
The lad no longer here pursues the maid ; 

The fawn, grown fearless, knows her master well, 
The loved one by her lover's side is laid. 

Around me, tripping with a dove-like tread, 
Are seven times seventy houris, passing sweet; 

With oils of roses they anoint my head, 
And bring rose-water jars to wash my feet. 

[ 30 ] 



Selected Poems 



They bring me sherbets cool with creamy snow, 

They scent my courts with frankincense and myrrh ; 

With peacock fans they make soft breezes blow, 
And carol songs that set my heart astir. 

Ah, they are fairer far than maids of earth, 
And never flee the lover when he wooes, 

They seek me dancing in delightful mirth, 
And always come to kiss me when I choose. 

They beg me think no more of loves of mine 
In old-time Aprils there in haunts of men ; 

They bid me quaff their jug's mellifluous wine, 
And never ask to see the Earth again. 

Ah yes, they all surrender free of force, — 

The bird comes captive though I set no snare ; 

Yet wines they hand me never bring remorse, 
The love they lavish never brings despair. 

And here in everlasting youth we stay, — 

The youth of roseate feet and soft dark eyes ; 

Though fifty Sultans rule and pass away 
The years flit soft as wings of butterflies. 

Yet, Iran, in my dreams I feel again 

Your dear temptations, your delightful snares, 

Your bitter-sweets, your pleasures mixed with pain, 
Your blissful sorrows, your divine despairs. 

I long for Bagdad's mosques and minarets, 
For Shiraz, with its fig-trees, vines and palms; 

For dear old Ispahan my spirit frets, — 

O sight more soothing than Arabian balms! 

I weary of these everlasting Springs, 

These gardens with their never-fading flowers ; 

O, bring the North Wind on his eagle wings, 
To quench their glory in his sleety showers ! 

[ 31 ] 



Selected Poems 



Who cares for youth where every one is young? 

Who values springtime life where none grow old? 
All gold with iron in one heap were flung 

If every ship came weighted down with gold. 

Where every man is wealthy, none is rich ; 

Where bids no Evil, there can be no Good; 
Without some valley's intervening niche 

No mountain ever stands or ever stood. 

Though youth on Earth soon shatters like a rose, 
And love's fresh morning ends at last in night, 

The song is sweeter for an early close, 
Love ten times dearer for an early flight. 

Ah, sweet the prospect of a bliss pursued, 
Yet sweeter still the bliss we gained and lost ; 

clutch it not with fingers fondly rude, 

Or else to-morrow we shall count its cost. 

We slay the white swan for his peerless plume, — 
He falls, to splash in mire his snowy down ; 

We gather grapes, — our hands brush off their bloom; 
The creamy lily that we touch turns brown. 

What though the damsel struggle from my arm? 

What though she laughs and runs beyond my reach? 
The cherry's tartness proves its chiefest charm, 

The topmost bough witholds the reddest peach. 

Only one game is ever worth dispute, 

Well won with ardors of an anxious day, — 

To chase the prize, uncertain in pursuit, 
And having won, soon feel it slip away. 

1 envy Earth its secret, stolen bliss, 

Its fond embraces, half withheld, then given, 
Its lovers' quarrels, crushed beneath a kiss, 

Its fond farewells, that makes a hell seem heaven. 

[ 32 ] 



Selected Poems 



I love the world, — its spice of doubts and fears, 
Its sugared fictions, hiding heartless truth, 

Its silvery laughter, shining through its tears, 
The sweet, uncertain tenure of its youth. 

I beg the Prophet from his judgment seat 
To let me steal to Earth from heights above, 

Once more to test its wine-cup's dear deceit, 
And taste the bitter honey of its love. 



THE PENITENTIARY 
I 

I see the convicts in disgraceful stripes 

Come homeward to their cells at set of sun, 

The whole world's most despised, disgusting types, 
As hopeless as the day that now is done. 

The penitentiary opens iron jaws 

To swallow up the mass of shame and sin, 

The cages seize them in their rusty claws, 
And giant gates are locked to keep them in. 

Their faces all are foul, their hands unclean, 
Their aching ankles drag the iron ball, 

And two by two they bear a clanking chain ; 

Their heads are shaved to show their hopeless fall. 

One sings lewd songs, one tells a wicked jest, 
They laugh at honor and they laugh at shame ; 

All that on earth is sweetest and is best 

Is scoffed and blasphemed with a vulgar name. 

Here comes a man who sought to make escape ; 

Behold the swollen stripes of whip and rod ! — 
What shame to think that one in mortal shape 

Should beat and spit upon a child of God! 

[ 33 ] 



Selected Poems 



I pity them and feel a rush of tears, 

But not one creature there has tears to shed, 

For none have ever sobbed since childhood years, 
As all their hopes and loves and joys are dead. 

And then my heart is hardened as I hear 
How every virtue from their souls is driven ; 

I shrink and shudder as they come too near, 

Exiled from Earth and barred from hopes of Heaven ! 



II 



And yet I feel all good is not yet lost ; 

This man would share with me his crust of bread, 
Would bring me water when with fever tost, 

Or share with me his narrow iron bed. 

Or, if I told him some sweet tale of love, 
A smile would light his face's dull despair, 

As radiant as the white wings of a dove 
Amid the darkness of a panther's lair. 

Once more a tender touch his heart would feel 
To think of one he loved in years of yore, 

Before the Law came, with its chains of steel, 
And bade him banish hope forevermore. 

Or, if I traveled through a lonely land, 

In storms of midnight, when my feet grew sore, 

Were he a hermit, he would take my hand 
And give me gracious welcome to his door. 

Or, if a slave, I hid from haunts of men, 
Or fled in terror from pursuing hounds, 

This thief would lead me safely to his den, 
And pour the oil upon my burning wounds. 

[ 34 ] 



Selected Toems 



If this be true of this poor convict now, 

How sweeter, happier might have been his fate 

If chance temptation had not warped his brow, 
And friendly warning had not come too late! 

And there are thousands in the world to-day 
Who never will be called to answer crimes, 

Enthroned in wealth to rule with despot sway, 
Though viler than these clods a hundred times. 

The shivering wretch who steals a tattered coat, 
Or crust to keep his starving soul alive, 

A rusty penny, or a cankered groat, — 

That is the thief the world will not forgive. 

But he who blights a maiden in her bud, 

Who snatches gold by force, or fraud, or might, 

And he who bathes a nation in its blood, 

Walks forth as free as Heaven's own air and light. 

Here treads a generous spendthrift, who at last, 

In evil moment, like a culprit fell; 
His fawners and his flatterers of the past, 

All, all have left him in a convict's cell; 

And as he treads in felon's stripes and chains, 
He learns the story told from sun to sun, — 

Be generous ; and men mock you for your pains ; 
Be selfish ; and your crown is surely won. 

Here comes a poor old drunkard, weak and worn, 
His face all bloated, dark with leaden care, 

His ashen eyes, once clear as skies of morn, 
Are dim and dull with unexpressed despair; 

While he who held the bottle to his lips, 

Who robbed him of his last poor coin at play, 

And she whose sweet lies made his soul's eclipse, 
Are roving free and happy far away. 

[ 35 ] 



Selected Poems 



Here comes a woman who was pure and young, 
A lily that was trampled in the dust, 

Whose lover's treason like an adder stung, — 
Another victim to a foolish trust; 

But while she pines in penitentiary walls 
Her false seducer never shares her doom ; 

He treads his measures in his gilded halls, 
She in the treadmill of this living tomb. 

And she shall kiss no more the rose when red, 
And in her saucy sweetness laugh aloud; 

A felon's couch shall be her bridal bed, 
A wreath of fennel rest upon her shroud. 

Yet though the world may not believe me just, 
I pardon him who steals a loaf of bread, 

But not the wretch who breaks my tender trust, 
And leaves me with aching heart of lead. 

My soul forgives that poor old drunken man, 
That outcast, shivering through the cruel town, 

But not the chieftain of a robber clan, 

Who steals my freedom and who wears a crown. 

But then the world is strong and I am weak; 

You are the creatures of the powers that be ; 
So you must fester in your dungeons bleak 

Till Death shall come at last to set you free. 



Ill 



But midnight comes ; each on a bed of straw, 
I see the two men and the woman lie ; 

Their servitude has satisfied the law, 

For now the time of death is drawing nigh. 

[ 36 ] 



Selected Poems 



Their fevered brains are swayed by fitful dreams, 

Their dim eyes glance through scenes of perished years, 

And sweet, sad visions come in hazy gleams 
Beyond the realm of sin and shame and tears. 

And then remember, in a broken prayer, 

With deaf, dull ears and dim and dying eyes, 
How Christ once calmed the dying thief's despair, — 
'To-day thou meetest me in Paradise." 



n' 



Who is this stranger treading by to-night, — 
A stranger coming from the far, far lands, 

His sad face lovely with a smile of light, 

Who bears the print of nails upon his hands? 

Behold, ye dying sinners! wake, arise! 

Ho, turnkey, jailer, open unto me! 
For we shall meet to-night in Paradise, 

The King of Heaven Himself has pardoned ye! 

"Behold, ye dying sinners! wake, arise! 

Ho, turnkey, jailer, open unto me! 
The convict in his straw-strewn dungeon dies, 

For Christ Himself has come to set him free!" 



THE POTTERS FIELD 

I 

See the lonesome fields forsaken in their desolation spread, 
Heaving with the silent grave-mounds of the nameless 
pauper dead. 

Never blooms a rose above them, never peeps a violet 

here, 
No one comes to sit beside them, no one comes to shed a 

tear. 

[ 37 ] 



Selected Toems 



No one speaks a word of pity, no one breathes a word of 

love, 
Earth around them shrinks with loathing, heaven recoils 

with scorn above. 

Here are sleeping thieves and beggars, here the outcast 

babes of shame, 
Here the felon from the gallows, here the waif without a 

name. 

Here the suicide lies sleeping, with the madman by his 

side, 
And the drunkard and the spendthrift in the same strange 

home abide. 

Here the ruined woman slumbers, while her lover, far 

away 
In his revels, thinketh never of his victim in the clay. 

Yet what vernal visions wreathed them in their childhood 

long ago ! 
Ah, what aspirations perished in the pauper graveyard 

low! 

Ah, what happy mothers kissed them in their pink- white 

boyish bloom, 
Never dreaming that their idols thus should share the 

felon's tomb! 

Ah, what trustful maidens kissed them, gazing in their 

eyes so brave, 
Never dreaming that their lovers thus should share the 

drunkard's grave! 

And the ardent lover fondling this frail outcast's golden 

hair, 
Never dreamed that he, a traitor, should thus drive her to 

despair, 

[ 38 ] 



Selected Poems 



Nor that this same trustful being, burning with a love 

untold, 
Soon would sink and lie decaying in the pauper graveyard 

mould, 

While their babe, scorned and deserted, soon would hide 

his shameful birth 
Far below in dust polluted of the pauper graveyard's 

earth. 



II 



But amid the nameless outcasts sleep the good and brave 
and true, 

They who lived and died for duty, they the world's Im- 
mortal Few. 

For the palm to those deserving evermore shall be denied ; 
They must tread the earth with beggars, slumber by the 
beggar's side; 

And the good and great and generous in a lowly grave lie 

down 
Ere the fickle world rewards them with the sceptre and the 

crown. 

Here are sleeping peerless poets, they who begged from 

door to door, 
But whom Death has wreathed with laurels green and glad 

forevermore. 

Here are sleeping brave old martyrs, they who strove to 

make us free, 
Whom the flames consume to ashes for their love of you 

and me. 

[ 39 ] 



Selected "Poems 



And they sleep as sweetly, calmly, in these pauper grave- 
yard scenes 

As the laurelled victor slumbers by the side of kings and 
queens. 

Here are sleeping countless heroes, whom the world 

remembers not, 
They who loved and toiled and struggled in their chill and 

cheerless lot; 

But while Earth has turned unheeding in its hurried stir 

and strife, 
Angels all their names have treasured in the Master's 

book of life ! 



Ill 



Now I dream I see the dawning of the awful Judgment 

Day, 
Far across the Eastern mountains, and the Eastern seas 

away. 

And the dull ears of those sleepers hear the trumpet in 
their palls, 

While their dumb lips strive to answer to its wild, soul- 
stirring calls. 

And from out their rusted coffins myriad bony shapes 

arise, 
While their dim eyes catch the glimmer in the vast vague 

Eastern skies. 

Then the beggar feebly totters from his grim and gaping 

grave, 
And he stands at last the equal of the great and strong 

and brave; 

[ 40 ] 



Selected Toems 



Then the felon struggles slowly from his dark and dusty 

shroud, 
There to face the last of Judges with the rich and high 

and proud; 

Then the ruined woman rises with her infant from the 

tomb, 
There to meet the trembling lover who at last must share 

her doom. 

So the pauper graveyard's children unto endless life arise, 
Now the equal of the haughty in the great Creator's eyes; 

Still to live and live forever, when the myriad years have 

fled, 
When the world is crushed to atoms, and the suns and 

stars are dead. 

THE CHURCHYARD 

Once I feared thee, mournful Monarch, with thy sad and 
solemn dells, 

Haunted by the vesper shadows and the sobbing fu- 
neral bells ; 

Haunted by the ghostly roses, in their silken robes of 

white, 
And the mock-bird's mystic singing in the dim and dusky 

night ; 

Haunted by the tombs of marble gleaming through magno- 
lia leaves, 

And the restless moonlight figures where the grave-mound 
dimly heaves. 

But my loved ones gather with thee in the fading, fleeting 

years, 
And I lay within thy caverns all my joys and hopes and 

fears. 

[ 41 ] 



Selected Toems 



Thou hast treasures in thy bosom richer than the ocean 
caves, 

Where the peerless pearls are beaming and the coral for- 
est waves, 

Where the mermaid gathers amber filled with mellow 

golden light, 
And the silver-weighted galleons glimmer through the 

emerald night ; 

Thou hast hearts of gold within thee, hearts all priceless 
pearls above, 

Rich with sweetness, rich with kindness, rich with never- 
dying love ; 

Thou hast dreams and aspirations sleeping with thy 
sheeted dead, 

Wondrous visions, grand ambitions, from the earth for- 
ever fled. 

Thou hast beauties in thy bosom blooming underneath 

our feet, 
Lovelier than our purple lilacs and our jasmines soft and 

sweet ; 

Thou hast blue-eyed, dimpled children, with their mazy, 

golden hair, 
Thou hast maids with brows of beauty, manly figures 

sleeping there. 

Thou hast wisdom in thy bosom greater than the lore of 

earth, 
Gathered by its gray-haired sages from the dim creation's 

birth ; 

Thou hast infants in thy bosom, learned in secrets whis- 
pered low, 

Which our wise men seek forever, never find and can not 
know. 

[ 42 ] 



Selected To ems 



MARY 

Of all the sweet names that ever were given 
To mortals on earth or seraphs in heaven, 
No matter if borne by milkmaid or fairy, 
The sweetest of all must ever be Mary. 

There's Helen, the star of song and of story, 

Men perished to wreathe her ringlets with glory; 

There also is Ruth, the true and the tender, 

Whose meekness and faith make strong men surrender. 

And Mabel's a name that ever sounds sweetly, 
And charms and enchants a mortal completely, 
While Katie suggests brown eyes and brown tresses, 
Created for love and lover's caresses. 

There's Maud, with a mouth as red as a cherry, 
With kisses so sweet, with laughter so merry; 
There's Edith, whose eyes are blue as the fountains, 
With ringlets of gold like morn on the mountains. 

There's Blanche and Adele, that sound autocratic, 
Poor Sarah and Jane that dwell in an attic, 
While Emma is dear, all dote upon Jenny, 
And Annie is loved not least among many. 

But never a name like Mary is spoken ; 
The dearest of dreams revive at that token ; 
Each other brings joy or brightness or sweetness, 
But Mary alone has perfect completeness. 

The lady high-born who reigns in a castle, 
The widow forlorn, the spouse of the vassal, 
The captive chained down in dungeon cell dreary, 
The diademed queen, may bear the name Mary. 

And Mary's the soul who opes the heart's portals, 
A sweetheart, perchance, the dearest of mortals; 
A sister, whose soul is dowered with beauty, 
Or mother, who lives for love and for duty. 

[ 43 ] 



Selected Poems 



It was Mary who first shed tears of contrition, 
It was she who was blest with God's greatest mission; 
She stood by His Cross, she saw His tomb riven, 
Her name shall be first on earth and in heaven. 



TO ONE DEPARTED 

Thy loving work is done forevermore, 
Thy tender heart is free from all its cares, 
For at the coming of the still, sad night, 
Thy folded hands have won their final rest. 
So thou art drawing near thy happy home, 
With gladsome singing and with golden sheaves, 
Fearing no foe amid the gloom of death, 
Seeing beyond the radiant wings of dawn 
The tufted palm trees of a paradise 
With walls of jasper and with gates of gold. 

Thy happy days, my dearest, have begun, 

While we on earth are still amid our woes ; 

We can not dream of half thy boundless bliss, — 

Our deepest joy would be a pain to thine. 

Thou wert the fairest flower of the earth, 

And now heaven claims thee as its loveliest star. 



CONFIRMATION 

The children, robed in spotless white, I see 
Kneel for a blessing at the bishop's feet, 
And, as I gaze upon their faces sweet, 
As pure as doves, from stain of sin so free, 
Before the priest whose sins unnumbered be, 
Whose heart for selfish, sordid aims must beat, 
I marvel why his blessing they entreat, 
When he to them should rather bend the knee. 

[ 44 ] 



Selected Poems 



Dear little hearts, my soul adopts your creed ; 
Dear little feet, your pathway I shall share; 
Dear little hands, my wanderings ye shall lead! 
Dear little brows, guide with your golden hair; 
Dear little lips, my God's forgiveness plead; 
Dear little eyes, shine on my soul's despair! 

ALONE IN NEW YORK 

Far from familiar old-time haunts I tread, 
Far from remembered scenes of Tennessee ; 

A wilderness of walls I see instead, 
A surging ocean of humanity. 

For leafy woods are piles of brick and stone ; 

For grassy fields a million roofs arise ; 
For crooning winds, I hear the cable's groan; 

For lowing herds, I hear the huckster's cries. 

No mocking-bird is singing to the breeze — 
I hear the roll of wagon wheels instead. 

An iron eagle in his iron trees, 

The engine thunders swooping overhead. 

Within the city park the sparrow cheeps, 
Consoling for the warble of a thrush ; 

Mechanic fountains make mechanic leaps 
To imitate the mountain torrent's rush. 

The stiff, ungraceful walks, prim flower-beds, 
Show gaudy clumps of yellow, red or green ; 

The trim-clipped hedges lift their tawdry heads 
To vie with tangled wildwoods I have seen. 

But here I came for sake of you, my Art, 

As I had promised in the long ago, 
To follow you with ever-loyal heart, 

Though fame and fortune I might never know. 

[ 45 ] 



Selected Toems 



And though I tread alone, I feel your hand 

Slip into mine as in the dear old days ; 
And though a stranger in a stranger's land, 

I hear your footsteps all my crowded ways. 

And though my heart aches as I go alone, 

And though mine eyes grow dim with unshed tears, 

Although my bosom now is steel and stone, 
Unlike its old self of departed years ; 

And though at night I toss and toss awake, 

Within a garret, on a lowly bed; 
Although my struggling spirit seems to break, 

When halcyon hopes and darling dreams have fled— 

I hear you whispher: "Wait, O wait for dawn, 
When all heart-breaking anguish shall be through ; 

And should you win or lose, go on, go on, 

And still, brave heart, be true, be true, be true!" 



ON RETURNING TO NEW YORK 

Once more I see your towers touch the sky, 
And hear the sullen thunder of your street ; 
Once more I see your legions hurry by, 
And rush to join them with my restless feet. 

I come not as I came in other days 
With ardent and enthusiastic soul, 
When fame and fortune hovered in my gaze, 
And, near at hand, I thought I saw the goal. 

Ah, surely things have sadly changed since then, 
When you were radiant with deceitful wiles ; 
A sorrow overclouds thy throngs of men, 
And sullen scowls erase thine olden smiles. 

[ 46 ) 






Selected Toems 



Plain and prosaic seem thy realms of joy, 
golden apple of my bygone themes, 
golden fleece that lured a foolish boy, 

priceless pearl, diamond of my dreams! 

Like Atalanta, fleetest of the fleet, 
Thy lovers come to woo from far and nigh ; 
They run the race with thee, and in defeat 
They bend the head beneath thy hand to die. 

1 shudder as I see thy crowded gate, 

And outside, doubting and perplexed, I stand; 
But now, I proudly come to face my fate, 
With none to welcome, none to take my hand. 

Yet, royal city, I have courage still, 
A spirit that shall never bend the knee ; 
My soul is guarded with unconquered Will, 
A sword I never shall surrender thee. 

I give thee battle, and shall bravely smite, 
For he who wins must woo thee with the sword ; 
My feet shall never safety seek in flight, 
A coffin or a crown be my reward. 

And there can be no abdication, save 

When I throw down the sceptre that is mine; 

If I should fall from glory to the grave, 

My own hand must my own death-warrant sign. 

He who relies upon his own right arm, 
Nor fears his gauntlet at the foe to fling, 
May drink of poisons, and they shall not harm, 
And take up serpents, and they shall not sting. 



C 47 ] 



Selected Toems 



ODE 
FOR CHARTER DAY— NEW YORK, MAY 4, 1898 

O Giant Empress of the Western World, 

Crown princess of the hopes of humankind, 
What brilliant banners have thy sons unfurled ! 

What gladsome garlands have thy daughters twined ! 
Resplendent at thy gateway of the sea, 

Thou holdest in thy hand the torch of Truth, 
The greatest of the cities yet to be, 

In Oriental glory of thy youth. 

The ancient East brings tribute unto thee, 

The pearls of Ceylon, spice of Hindu groves, 
The silks of China, gums of Araby, 

The dates of Syria and Sumatra cloves. 
France greets thee with the violet of her vines, 

And England with the fleeces of her looms ; 
Here palms of Cuba blend with Norway pines, 

And Greenland furs with Ethiopian plumes. 

Yet all these glorious gifts shall pass away, 

Like Tyrian silver, Carthaginian gold, 
And in some dim and undiscovered day 

Like fairy stories shall thy deeds be told. 
In that far future none shall tribute bring, 

And none shall stand amazed before thy powers, 
No poet shall thy strength and splendor sing, 

No monarch tremble at thy haughty towers. 

So, stately city, ere thy youth be past, 

Let Goodness be thy daughter, Truth thy son ; 

Let Beauty be thy priestess to the last, 

Thy house their temple till the day is done. 

[ 48 ] 






Selected Poems 



Then in thy strength do deeds that can not die, 
Win honors that shall never pass their noon ; 

Let Art unite with Love to rear on high 
A palace like a lily 'neath the moon. 

Lo! in thy million homes this very night, 

God sees thy children shed a flood of tears ; 
He sees the hungry stranger's piteous plight, 

And sees thee pass them by with deafened ears. 
Though thou art rich, thine orphans cry for bread, 

Thy widows in their anguish weep aloud, 
Thy wayward sons without thy palace tread, 

Thine erring daughters find thee cold and proud. 

Take these upon their bosom, bind their wounds, 

And let thy boast be through the coming years, 
"No man was ever hungry in my bounds, 

No woman wept, but that I dried her tears. 1 
So then, O princess, bring thy cruse of oil, 

Like Mary, in her day of dark despair, 
And wash His feet from dust of travel-toil, 

And dry them with the tresses of thy hair. 



M 



Then let years die and generations pass, 

Thy temples totter, palaces decay. 
Though these may perish like the Summer grass, 

Thy greater glory shall not fade away. 
For thou shalt raise an altar on this sod, 

Triumphant over funeral torch and bell, 

peerless daughter of the living God ! 

O heroine who withstood the hosts of hell ! 

UNION SQUARE 

1 watch the water lilies in this pond, 

The white, the blue, the yellow and the red, 
The sparrow tripping on their pads beyond, 
And splashing dewdrops on his wings and head. 

[ 49 ] 



Selected Toems 



The lotus, like a Cleopatra there, 

Reveals a bosom with a roseate glow, 

As in her gorgeous old Egyptian lair 
She fascinated heroes long ago. 

A-down the walk a throng of children goes 
With dewy eyes a-peep through hazy curls, 

When years are poems, every month a rose, 
All morns are rubies and all noons are pearls. 

Around these seats I see a motley crowd 
Of listless loungers, miserable and low, 

With backs bent double, wrinkled faces bowed, 
Or, aimless, straggling by with footsteps slow. 

With corncob pipes, these old men mumbling sit, 
Forsaken, friendless, waiting but for death, 

When, like the dead leaves that around them flit, 
They fall to be forgotten in a breath. 

And here a hard-faced girl reclines alone, 

Dreaming of dead days with their holy calm, 

Before her happy heart was turned to stone, 
And slumber to her spirit brought no balm. 

Here the young poet, once a farmer-boy, 
Who with glad heart unto the city came, 

Sees manhood years his high-born hopes destroy, 
And slay his dreams of fortune and of fame. 

When night descends, electric argent lamps 
Like radiant cactus blossoms blaze on high ; 

The city seems a world of war-like camps, 
While Broadway with its legions thunders by. 

In gilt play-houses hundreds sigh to see 
The mimic woes of actors on the stage, 

But not one tear for actual grief shall be, 
The snares for childhood or the pangs of age. 

[ 50 ] 



Selected "Poems 



Around this Square rich men and women ride, 
Bedizened creatures in their fashion flaunt, 

While this starved outcast, planning suicide, 
Steals back to perish in his dismal haunt. 

Strange, while is known so well the sparrow's fall, 
Man heeds not when his brother's plaint is made; 

Strange, that the brightest, whitest light of all 
Should cast the deepest and the darkest shade! 

But still the world denies its helping hand 
To those most worthy of its love and care. 

If Christ returned to-night, he too would stand 
Homeless and friendless, here on Union Square. 



TO A STRANGER 

Along a giant city's streets I go: 

Three million strangers right and left I see ; 
Three million faces I shall never know ; 

Three million hearts, and not one heart for me ! 

O stranger passing by with careless glance, 
I long to greet you, long to know you well, 

But still I falter, fearing to advance, 

My words of frienship in your ears to tell. 

Your soul seems careless and your heart seems cold, 
Your eyes averted, lips a-curl with pride; 

Yet half your secrets in your face are told, 
Your tragic story can not be denied. 

Like you, such pride has made me lift my head 
When dull Despair was sitting in my heart, 

Has made me smile when old-time friends have fled, 
And breathe defiance when my hopes depart. 

[ 51 ] 



Selected Poems 



Like you, O stranger, I have loved and lost, 
Like you, have seen my brave ambitions end, 

Like you, on seas of sorrow have been tost, 
Like you, I seek a sympathetic friend. 

Come, let me tell you secrets like your own, 
Till all your dull indifference shall depart, — 

Truths that should melt a bosom wrought of stone, 
And bring the red sparks from a flinty heart. 

For we were born to share this fleeting life, 
To tread the morning of one little day, 

To feel the noontide sorrow, joy and strife, 
And in the selfsame twilight pass away. 

Like mine, your heart is diamond clogged with clay, 
Your being dust and air and dew and fire, 

And as you see earth's blossoms all decay, 
You gaze to heaven with untold desire. 

For we are spirits manacled in sod, 

Two wandering heirs of all eternity, 
Two exiled princes who are sons of God, 

Two blendings of the dust and deity. 



A STRANGER IN LONDON 

Here in the greatest city of the world 
A hundred thousand people pass me by. 
The old, the young, the rich, the poor I see, 
All rushing on to different destinies. 
I have no friend amid the swarming throng, 
No man, no woman here gives thought to me. 
I never saw one being here before, 
Nor shall I see one being here again. 

[ 52 ] 



Selected Poems 



Alone, deserted in this stranger land, 

I feel my utter insignificance, 

And say, "It matters not what one may be, 

What one may plan, his dreams, his destiny, 

Since all his life is merest nothingness." 

And then I turn, and hurrying swiftly by, 

A careless stranger almost touches me. 

I ask him to direct me to a place 

Which I have sought an hour or more in vain. 

Then all at once his half-impatient face 

Breaks in a kindly and good-natured smile. 

Not only does he tell me how to go, 

Which way to turn, and where to find my place, 

But suddenly he says: "Come, go with me; 

I'll show the way myself." Though I protest, 

He leads the whole way, till we reach the spot. 

And so we part. A pleasant good-bye next, 
A friendly smile from him and thanks from me, 
And then I see him lost amid the crowd. 
I never saw the stranger's face before, 
And never shall I see his face again. 

And yet, O stranger, you have taught me this: 
All men are brothers ! Though the nations fight 
For fancied wrongs, and though the poor and weak 
Must bleed and die to glorify the Great, 
I feel that artificial boundaries, 
Frontiers and outposts, cannot make us foes. 
The little deed of kindness you have done 
Shows all mankind are kinsmen unto me, 
That you and I, contemporaries, friends, 
Put here to share our portion of the earth, 
And born to live the selfsame day and time, 
Are children of the true and only God. 

[ 53 ] 



Selected Poems 



ODE 

For the Semi-centennial Celebration of the Founding 

of the Sigma Chi Fraternity, Oxford, 

Ohio, June 28, 1905. 

A half a hundred years ago to-day 

Seven youths joined hands to consecrate this shrine, 
Where friendship's fires might never fade away, 

But glow forever with a flame divine. 

Youth is the father of all fellowship, 

Begetter of the Brotherhood of Men. 
Oh, when his suns in twilight darkness dip, 

The old-time thrills are never known again ! 

We drift on desert seas of selfishness, 

When cold Indifference steers the bark alone ; 

We heed no shipwreck's signals of distress, 
Forgetting others' miseries in our own. 

But here we anchor for one happy day, 

And tread old memory-gardens of the past, 

To pledge old friendships, made in morns of May — 
God grant them leal and loyal to the last ! 

Let Youth's pink roses twine through locks of Age; 

Come back, dear boy-hearts, from your tombs of yore! 
Oh, let us read once more from this sweet page 

Of a lost volume we shall clasp no more ! 

Come, let us gather, old-time friends, again, 
Within the temple we have loved so long ; 

See here the old ideals, free from stain, 

The old-time precepts, sweet as heavenly song:. 

Here, like the seven golden candlesticks 

Beheld by John on Patmos long ago, 
Seven lights are set, on which our eyes may fix, 

To guide our feet when darkness comes below. 

[ 54 ] 



Selected Toems 



One candlestick is Friendship, one is Truth, 
And one is Faith, and Hope another yet; 

And one is Peace, and one called Glow of -Youth, 
With Love high over all the others set. 

Oh, be they not like torches quenched in strife, 

Nor light of Laodicea, soon to wane, 
But true as Smyrna, crowned with endless life, 

And steadfast as the Philadelphian fane ! 

THE TREE IN THE CITY 

Amid the fret and fever of the street, 

Calm, peaceful and serene this giant stands; 

Amid the strife, the worry of the town, 

His mighty heart remains in deep repose ; 

Among the seething multitudes of men, 

Their restlessness cannot disturb his rest. 

I watch the emerald ocean of his leaves, 

And every heaving billow speaks of joy — 

The joy of living, joy of strength and health, 

Of peace of mind, of duty well performed. 

For he has kept the law with God and man, 

Done well his part, nor sought to shun his lot; 

So, hearty, hale and wholesome, he uprears 

In green old age a tower of hardihood. 

Like some old man whose youth was free from blame, 

Whose temperate manhood brought him no reproach, 

He reaps the rich rewards of goodly years, 

Erect and strong in gray magnificence. 

I see him, and I tread old times again, 
A barefoot boy upon my father's farm. 
I hear the warble of a wheatfield quail, 
I gather sprays of dewy wilding flowers, 
I breathe soft odors of the apple blooms, 
And hear the cowbells tinkling in the lane. 

[ 55 ] 



Selected Poems 



A schoolboy in the old schoolhouse again, 
I hear the children droning at their books, 
I see my little sweetheart's soft brown eyes. 

patriarch of the multitudious leaves, 
Content and calm amid this rush and roar, 
Still uncontaminated in this strife, 

Free from repining for the fields or woods — 
Teach me the grandeur of thy deep repose, 
Teach me the glory of thy goodly soul, 
That];I may walk with conscience undisturbed 
Amid the struggle in the marts of men ! 

THE CHARMS OF THE CITY 

Though misanthropes may praise the country more, 
And turn from mankind to some rude retreat, 

1 seek the City, with its rush and roar, 
Its eager and enthusiastic street. 

I turn from fellowship of beast and bird, 
The coarse backwoodsman and unlettered swain, 
To where heart-blood of humankind is stirred, 
To share my brother's pleasure and his pain. 

I love the City's wilderness of stone, 
Its flags, like scarlet poppies in the air, 
Where Wealth erects a gold and silver throne, 
And Fashion charms with silk and satin snare. 
I love its splendid shops, where jewels blaze, 
And crystals glitter like a starry crown, 
With mirrors, plumes and laces, like a maze, 
With furs and velvets, soft as thistle-down. 

I walk its midnight meadows, and I mark 
The flaming lamps of red and blue and white, — 
Its dazzling daisies, come to cheer the dark, 
Its morning-glories, born to bless the night. 

[ 56 ] 



Selected Toems 



flaming flowers of the City's gloom, 

You shine through Summer, Winter, Fall and Spring, 

When snowflakes flutter on the tulip's tomb, 

When leaves are brown, and birds have ceased to sing. 

1 turn from bobolinks in cherry trees 
To sweet girl-faces dimpling in delight, 
Their rosy ribbons flitting in the breeze, — 
Seraphic doves in plumes of pink and white. 
I love to pet these mischief-making boys 
Whose eyes are twinkling stars in dewy dawns, 
More nimble than the squirrels, full of noise, 
More wild and wilful than a flock of fawns. 

O, why should man seek soulless solitude, 
From life and love to desert caves depart? 
Nay, give me friends of sympathetic mood, 
To share my spirit, understand my heart! 
With friends like these I fill my pipe and smoke, 
And brim the mug with brown Autumnal brew; 
We talk together till the midnight stroke, 
On themes delightful to the Chosen Few. 

I see the play, and Shakespeare speaks once more 

The masterpieces of his matchless art. 

I hear the lecture ; Science bids me soar, 

And draw the mystic veils of God apart. 

I read the papers, and I see all strands, 

I live through peace and war, on field and flood ; 

I dwell in Europe, roam Sahara sands, 

And all the wide world is my neighborhood. 

I love the City's darkness and despair, 

Its grandeur, grief, its glory and its gloom; 

My brother's bliss and bitterness I share, 

And with him march to meet the Common Doom. 

[ 57 ] 



Selected "Poems 



I love the lights that glitter through its dusk 
Like star-strewn skies downfallen from above ; 
I crave the fruitage of its iron husk, 
Red -veined with life-blood from the breast of love. 

Though buds may blossom, Autumn foliage flush, 
This laughing girl is lovelier than them all ; 
More charming than a blackbird or a thrush, 
The schoolboy's whistle and the newsboy's call. 
Let hermit heed the babble of the brooks, 
Let anchorites be comrades of the clod ; 
I turn from sticks and stones to read good books, 
And study Man, the first-born son of God. 

SUNRISE IN THE COUNTRY 

I have grown weary of the noise and dust, 
Weary of heat, and smoky, fetid air ; 
But now at last I walk in the country lanes, 
And drink cool breezes of the flowery fields. 

No more I vex to hear the trolley's gong, 
I hear instead the bells of grazing cows ; 
The rattling and the rumbling hucksters' carts 
Are now forgotten as I hear a thrush ; 
The shriek of locomotives now is still, 
And in its stead I hear the crowing cock. 
The clanging chimes of churches are forgot 
In chirp of bluejays and in hum of bees. 

I rise when dews bespangle fern and flower, 
When farmer boys go whistling at the plow, 
When mocking-birds are sprinkling showers of song, 
And leaves are dancing for the joy of life. 
How fresh, how cool, how pure the morning air! 
I drink it as some rare elixir, brewed 
To give my soul an everlasting life, 
And give my body never-dying youth. 

[ 58 ] 



Selected Toems 



The bubbling spring from white Olympian snows 
Leaps not more fresh for goblets of the gods. 
O, let me watch the rising of the sun 
With scarlet robe and diadem of fire, 
Through roses dewy with the morning stars, 
And clouds embroidered with a cloth of gold. 
He comes in glory and in majesty, 
He comes in splendor and sublimity. 
Now, as I hear the wrens trill matin hymns, 
And hear a million crickets chirp his praise, 
As slender leaves pour forth libation dews, 
And fields of corn salute with banners green, 
My soul remembers old forgotten faiths 
Taught in the tents by far-off Eastern palms ; 
With old ancestors on the desert sands 
It bends its knees in worship of the sun. 

O, let me drink this bracing morning breeze, 
And fiery liquors shall my lips disdain. 
I quaff the cooling goblet to its depth, 
And hate the riotous revel yesternight. 
Here is a brew that makes the spirit glad, 
Yet never makes a misery shadow mirth ; 
Here is a cup to give the bosom cheer, 
Without the poison of the serpent's sting. 

I see this yellow primrose, and my heart 
Forgets the bitter quarrel yesterday ; 
This dewy dandelion gives me gold 
Worth more than that I lost in city marts ; 
This silver-throated quail shall drive away 
My vain regrets for follies of the past; 
This warbling grosbeak makes my heart forgive 
The friend who proved me false on yesterweek ; 
This morning-glory, dangling with its dews, 
Gives power to smile at scowls of enemies. 

[ 59 ] 



Selected Poems 



O, I have known the poignant pangs of love, 
And felt its baneful fevers in my blood, 
My heart has melted with its hot desire, 
And grown delirious, fierce with passion-fire. 
My soul has burned beneath seductive smiles, 
And reeled from daggers of disdainful eyes. 
Oft have I tossed in dreams of fancied bliss, 
Only to wake with empty, aching arms. 
My blood has boiled, impatient for its own, 
And frozen when its loved one gave it scorn. 
My limbs have wearied in a hot pursuit 
Of clasps and kisses fraught with wild unrest. 

Come to the country! See the sun arise, 
And all ferocious passions then shall flee. 
Behold this pied wood-lily, and be cured 
Of poison that distills from dark brown eyes. 
Wade barefoot in this brook, and you shall pine 
Not for the fairest face in all the world. 
Hark to the field-lark's note, and find release 
From all the pangs of unrequited love. 

MOUNTAIN BROOK 

Mountain brook, wild mountain brook, 
Roaring through this rocky nook, 
Tell me why you twist and toss 
On from couch to couch of moss? 
Tell me why your spirit yearns, 
Heedless of caressing ferns, 
And the laurel's pleading look 
As she begs you linger, brook? 

Hear the murmur of the pines, 
Heed the kiss of columbines : 
How they call to you to stay 
Ere you leap your headlong way ! 

[ 60 ] 



Selected Poems 



Yet in foaming haste you go, 
Far from parent peaks of snow, 
Leaping cream-white cascades down, 
Speeding to yon lowland town. 

Pause, O, pause before you leap 
Down this vine-entangled steep! 
Linger here with peaks of snow 
Flushed with morn's carnation glow; 
Linger here in hemlock bowers, 
Play with rhododendron flowers ; 
Linger here in youth and joy, 
Like a bonny blithesome boy! 

In that soiled and sinful town 
Crystal waves are smirched with brown ; 
Soon your airy white attire 
Draggles in the murky mire; 
You shall curdle green with scum, 
And your happy voice grow dumb. 
Ere you leap, I beg you look, 
Pure and peerless mountain brook! 

But, you answer, "I must go 
Far through panting plains below; 
I must rescue fainting wheat 
Drooping in the brazen heat; 
I must bear to parching corn 
Vigor of this mountain morn; 
I must bring from melting snows 
Blood for blushes on the rose. 

"I must come to aid of men 
In yon far-off huddled den ; 
Rush where huts and hovels scowl 
Over alleys close and foul. 

[ 61 ] 



Selected Poems 



I must make the factory hum, 
Though it curdle me with scum. 
I must cleanse the sink and sewer 
Though they make myself impure." 

Mountain brook, wild mountain brook, 
Heaven had planned the course you took. 
Though the blossom soon must fade, 
Though the leaf soon hangs decayed ; 
Though the star must sink in gloom, 
Though I soon shall seek the tomb ; — 
Let us go with gladsome look, 
God's hand leading, mountain brook. 



BOHEMIA 

Bohemia, Bohemia, 

The land of verdant hills, 

Of clustered vineyards, flowery fields, 

Of blue and bubbling rills! 

I love your orchards and your farms, 

Your gardens neat and trim, 

Your rocky rivers, crystal-clear, 

With shouting boys a-swim. 

Bohemia, Bohemia, 

You give your charming name 

To comrade-life, to fellowship, 

To life that leads to fame. 

And every woman, every man 

Among the Faithful Few, 

Bohemia, Bohemia, 

Is always named for you. 

[ 62 ] 



Selected Toems 



Bohemia, Bohemia, 

The Kingdom of Good Cheer, 

Of tankards crowned with feathery foam, 

From mellow golden beer. 

The land that Shylocks ever shun, 

That makes the dunces rage, 

But where the Chosen People come 

To live their Golden Age. 

Bohemia, Bohemia, 

The realm of poetry, 

Of romance, story and of song, 

Of love and loyalty! 

The home of splendid girls and boys, 

The land of dear delights, 

Of happy morns, of blissful noons, 

And passion-pulsing nights. 

Bohemia, Bohemia, 

Since first I loved your name, 

Fond hopes have sped, sweet dreams have fled, 

And youth has lost its flame. 

Yet young and joyous, old and gray, 

Your lover tried and true, 

Bohemia, Bohemia, 

Is faithful still to you! 

Bohemia, Bohemia, 

When I your flag unfurled, 

The smiles of Fortune changed to frowns, 

For you I lost the world. 

But let the Gentiles go their way, 

And let the heathen bawl, — 

Bohemia, Bohemia, 

You're ten times worth them all! 



[ 63 ] 



Selected Toems 



PASADENA 

Pasadena, charming town, 
Wears a fruit-and-flower crown. 
There the tendrils, boughs and twigs 
Bend with lemons, grapes or figs. 
Purple bougainvillea vines 
Interlace with palms and pines, 
And the buff and crimson cannas 
Wave beside broad-leaved bananas. 

In the dallying ocean breeze 
Swing the feathery pepper-trees ; 
Here nasturtiums, orange-red, 
Wreathe the scarlet salvia-bed ; 
Here are lilies, pink or pied, 
Spotted like a leopard's hide; 
Here the marigold in yellow 
Mocks the apricot grown mellow. 

Morning-glories float and flow 
Like a cloud of indigo ; 
Blooming eucalyptus trees' 
Blood-hued clusters tempt the bees ; 
Rank geraniums fringe the ways 
With a splendid sunset blaze ; 
Like a flame-robed Witch of Endor 
Yon hibiscus shines in splendor. 

Green pomegranates' blossom-stars 
Glare and glow like angry Mars; 
Here lantana clusters burn, 
Trumpet-flowers with passion yearn. 
Here are cactus, fuschia, rose, 
Oleanders' fragrant snows, 
Blue solanum, red tacoma, 
Heliotrope with blest aroma. 

[ 64 ] 



Selected Poems 



Here are scattered on her slopes 
Strawberries, melons, cantaloupes; 
Here the golden orange clings, 
Here the odorous grape-fruit swings. 
Here are dangling in your reach 
Olive, plum, and pear and peach, 
Purple aster, red verbena, 
Saffron poppy, — Pasadena! 



CARROLL VANCE 

We sigh because you passed away so young, 
Forsaking us, who wander still below, 

When life was like a lute with strings unstrung, 
A-thrillwith music Earth may never know. 

But we, not you, deserve the piteous plaint, 
The sob, the sigh, the wringing of the hands, 

Soul freed at last from every mortal taint, 
Among the lilies of enchanted lands! 

For us, the slowly creeping steps of age, 
For you, the halcycn heart forever young; 

For us, the garment soiled, the blotted page, 
For you, the glory of the songs unsung. 

For us, the sad September's withered sheaves, 
For you, the peach-blooms of an April day; 

For us, the numb November's hectic leaves, 
For you, the verdure of the morns of May. 

Best is that death when Life is in its Spring, 

When morning skies are gowned in blue and gold, 

Before one bird has ever ceased to sing, 
And not one" forest leaf has yet grown old. 

[ 65 ] 



Selected Toems 



Ah, kindly Fate, forever thus to be, 

When Love, the wild gazelle, treads not amiss, 
When pearly-footed Youth forbears to flee, 

And dimpled Joy defers his farewell kiss ! 

For you, assassin Autumn never comes 

To stab white-blossomed Summer to the heart, 

No winds of Winter beat their muffled drums 
To bid the brilliant tropic birds depart. 

You shall not see Hope's shattered roses strewn, 
Nor golden locks flecked into frosty gray, 

Nor learn the disillusions of the noon, 
Nor see at last Affection's dull decay. 

For you no fairy story came untrue, 
No Gospel seemed unworthy of belief ; 

The peasant still will be king to you, 
And every wisp of tares a golden sheaf. 

Rest, calm and peaceful ; you have naught to fear, 
Who drove all hate and malice from your side, 

Nor gave one being cause to shed a tear, 
Until that day, dear boy, on which you died. 



THE ALPS 

Fresh air, green grass, and water crystal-clear, 
Dew-sprinkled meadows, forests cool and dark, 

These bid good-morning to the mountaineer 
Who whistles as his waking watch-dogs bark. 

Steep daisy-dappled pastures, grazing cows, 
And scattered sheep with tiny bells a-ring; 

A deep calm pool, with overhanging boughs, 
Where early birds, from sleep awakened, sing. 

[ 66 ] 



Selected To ems 



An apple orchard, mossy, gnarled and old, 
Clings to a crag with bony-finger roots ; 

Wild flowers, pure as vestals, brave the cold, 
Their odors frail as notes from fairy flutes. 

A peasant's cottage clutches to a cliff, 
A rocky pasture feeds a flock of goats ; 

And then a breeze comes in a sudden whiff, 
And over all a cloudy curtain floats. 

A brawling brook with rustic bridge is seen, 
And girls with pitchers coming to a spring, 

Far down below, the lake lies glossy green, 
With snowy sails like swans upon the wing. 

Here, fragile as two airy wisps of lace, 

From mossy rocks twin cascades leap and call ; 

Another quivers with a plume-like grace, 
And others still in thundering torrents fall. 

Some sparkle like a radiant shower of gems, 
And some are misty as a cloud of cream ; 

They grace the ferns with dewy diadems, 

And weave their rainbows like a seraph's dream. 

The cascades echo to the hunter's horn, 

The cascades waft soft incense from the sod ; 

These are the goblets whence the hand of Morn 
Pours out libations at the feet of God. 

Here lies the land from tyrant fetters freed, 
Where Liberty forevermore shall dwell. 

Here every bird sings praise to Winkleried, 
And everv mountain speaks of William Tell. 

Far on the top of yonder stormy peak 
The unblest bones of Pontius Pilate lie ; 

In vain his ghost a resting place shall seek, — 
For in the tomb his memories will not die ! 

[ 67 ] 



Selected Poems 



High over all rise peaks on peaks of snow, 
White-robed and silent, stately and sublime ; 

Their age, their birth, no man shall ever know; 
Their crowns shall glitter to the end of time. 

O awful white-browed ministers of God, 

No storms can ever rend your steadfast thrones ; 

In vain the thunders shake your quivering sod, 
In vain the lightnings shiver through your stones. 

The'Csesars and Napoleons all have gone, 
Dark Hannibal no longer roves at will ; 

Yet^pure and white as at primeval dawn 
The day of judgment shall behold you still. 

Like grateful Noah's smoking sacrifice 
On Ararat, when earth was flood -restored, 

Your altars, clouded with their incense, rise 
In everlasting glory to the Lord. 



THE BAY OF NAPLES 

Here bends the road around a mountain-side, 
With laurels twined in myrtles like a hedge ; 

Beneath the cliff, in comes the ocean tide, 
And breaks in billows on a rocky ledge. 

A sulphur-yellow crescent, sweeps the town 

Around the bay, as blue as indigo ; 
Vesuvius, smoking, lifts a cone of brown 

Above the terraced villas strewn below. 

Here claret-colored dahlias fringe the wall, 
While cactus fattens on the ruined tombs, 

And like a splendid purple waterfall, 

The morning-glories hang their heavenly blooms. 

[ 68 ] 



Selected "Poems 



Here golden-globuled oranges swing low, 
With breath as sweet as songs of Paradise; 

Pomegranate blossoms in vermilion glow, 
And mottled pansies open argus eyes. 

A weeping willow overhangs the way, 

A eucalyptus rears toward the sky ; 
Pears, over-ripe, slow falling day by day, 

In scattered red and yellow clusters lie. 

A herd of goats creeps trudging through the dust, 
An old hag prods them with a splintered beam; 

An ancient water-wheel, a-creak with rust, 
Turned by a donkey, pours a little stream. 

A friar, robed in black, and sleek and fat, 
Smiles forth a Pax Vobiscum passing by; 

A purple tassel in his glossy hat 

Is dancing to the twinkle in his eye. 

A mother in her peasantry finery dressed 
Smiles proudly on you like a festal morn, 

As if to say the urchin at her breast 
Is finest of all babies ever born. 

And now the beggars in battalions come, 

The old, the young, the crippled and the blind, 

The halt, the lame, the deaf, deformed and dumb, 
Some running fast, some hobbling up behind. 

As graceful as gazelles, with slender feet, 

With glossy curls, brown cheeks and dewy eyes, 

The beggar boys and girls their woes repeat, 

And storm your heart with piteous smiles and sighs. 

A lad sits here, a melon in his lap, 

Its crimson pulp is melting in his mouth ; 

Here figs in baskets ooze with honeyed sap, — 
The trickling sultry-sweetness of the South. 

[ 69 ] 



Selected Poems 



Some ear-ringed, turbaned sailors on a boat 
Dance while the vagabond musicians play ; 

The sounds of flute and violin afloat 

Soothe into dreams the eyes of dozing day. 

O violin, chained in your fiery strings, 

Italia, like a bird within a cage, 
Of all her woe, her grief and glory sings, 

Her love, her hate, her anguish and her rage! 

A lovely barefoot girl before me stands, 
Her oval face like sunset-crimsoned dusk; 

From tattered sleeves she lifts imploring hands, — 
A Queen of Beauty begging for a husk. 

O barefoot beggar-maid, I fear your kiss, 
I fear the glory of your twilight eyes ! 

Thorns mingle in the blossoms of your bliss, 
You smite the strong, you stultify the wise. 

Behind your smile I see the scowl of hate, 
Your dimple hides a dagger like a sheath ; 

Beside you is the warning face of Fate, 

To love you means to play at dice with Death. 

For over there the hills of Capri swell, 

Like deep blue clouds afloat in pale blue skies, 

Where dark Tiberius learned his lesson well, — 
All earthly joys and ecstacies are lies! 

And, silent, over all Vesuvius looms, 

Like Gabriel waiting for the Judgment Day, 

When Naples shall become a waste of tombs, 
And all this youth and beauty pass away. 



C 70 ] 



Selected Poems 



THE LAURELS 

Along the noisy city streets I go, 

Unknown, unheeded by the careless throng; 
But in my heart I feel a morning glow, 

And on my lips the spirit of a song. 

All unbefriended, I receive no smiles, 
And feel no pressure of a helping hand ; 

Yet I have journeyed for a thousand miles 
To win a triumph in this alien land. 

Butlo! Success awaits me as my bride, 

Crowned with a crown of gold, and robed in white, 

And there I see my handmaids at her side, 
Fame on her left and Fortune on her right. 

high-born lady, I have come to woo, 
And I shall win you by the force of will ; 

Do not deny me ! When I come for you 

No fortress can withstand my strength and skill. 

What though the rabble turns away from me? 

What though my rights have been withheld for 
years ? 
That rabble shall my brilliant victory see, 

And change their servile hisses into cheers. 

What though pretenders now usurp my throne? 
What though imposters now my sceptre wield? 

1 bravely come to battle for my own, 

And charlatans who trespass all must yield. 

What though my heart has felt corroding care? 

What though I wince from iron fangs of want? 
My soul will grapple with, and choke Despair, 

And strangle Hunger, though his jaws be gaunt. 

[ 71 ] 



Selected "Poems 



What though I clutch with pinching poverty? 

What though the honors now are claimed by knaves? 
All foes were raised before my face to flee, 

And all privations born to be my slaves. 

Chance, stand aside! I do not bow to you ; 

Success, strew laurels, and my triumph sings! 
Behold, you now shall give me tribute due, 

And make obeisance to your rightful king! 



THE SOLDIER OF FORTUNE 

I seek for gold in Klondike mountain snow, 
And diamonds in the Transvaal waste afar; 

I dive for pearls where Ceylon currents flow, 
And gather furs beneath the polar star. 

I hook the spouting whale in seas to south, 
I gather corals by Sicilian strands ; 

I hunt for amber at the Baltic's mouth, 
And ivory far beyond Sahara sands. 

A bare-foot boy, I leave the prosy farm 
To make my fortune in the marts of men ; 

With not a friend but one unconquered arm 
I beard the Monster, London, in his den. 

In rags and tatters, seeking wealth and fame, 
I sweat, I struggle over all to rise; 

I fight, I bleed, I win a noble name, 
And stab my Evil Fortune till he dies. 

A beggar lad, I carve, I sing, I paint, 

Till laurel leaf and myrtle bough are mine ; 

Supernal Beauty, free from mortal taint, 
Beneath my brush and chisel wakes divine. 

[ 72 ] 



Selected Toems 



Unknown, disdained, I strike the poet's lyre, 
And maidens scatter roses in my path ; 

A peasant soldier, under fiercest fire, 

I snatch a red wreath from the brow of Wrath. 

I am the slayer of the dragon Fear; 

The traitor, Chance, must cringe to me as lord; 
All foes are frightened when my name they hear, 

All opposition flees before my sword. 

Why should I quail because a woman frowns? 

Why should I whine because she turns away? 
I am no trailer after girlish gowns ; 

Maids were not born to rule me, but obey. 

A world of women waits me to be won, 
And woman's kisses are the victor's right; 

I cull the loveliest under every sun, 

Beneath the Southern Cross or Northern Light. 

All things are mine. I do not fear or flinch. 

All fruits, all flowers I claim by right of birth. 
I fear no foe ; I never yield an inch ; 

I conquer all the kingdoms of the earth. 



THE SLEEPING IDLERS 

St. James Park 

Stretched on the grass the weary outcasts lie; 

No one disturbs them in their heavy sleep ; 
Though London like an ocean thunders by, 

It leaves them stranded in its onward sweep. 

These are the men who lost the game of life, 
These are the men whom Failure calls her own. 

Success forsook them in the selfish strife, 

With broken blades and banners overthrown. 

L 73 ] 



Selected "Poems 



Here lie the vanquished on a battlefield 

More vast than any history's page can show. 

Bowed in defeat, they drop the spear and shield, 
And only beg for quarter from the foe. 

Yet ah, what hopes they had in youthful years, 
When marching proudly forth to fight the world ! 

Then came the toil, the sweat, the blood and tears, 
And foes in overwhelming columns hurled. 

Where now the songs of triumph that they sung, 
Where now the blazoned banners lifted high? 

Ah, who can sing with heart no longer young, 
And one is only waiting here to die? 

Gone are the glories that they strove to win, 
Their dreams of fame and fortune all have fled ; 

They huddle here in misery, shame and sin, 

Their bodies living, though their souls are dead. 

But still your jealous Mother guards your sleep, 
And bids you good-night when your sun has set ; 

Be sure a faithful vigil she will keep, 

For England claims you as her children yet. 

Though she has sons who wooed and won success, 
Whose memories she records in bronze and stone, 

Because you failed she does not love you less, 
But clasps you to her bosom as her own. 

And it is well. For some who fight must fail, 

Must play their part like those who fight and win. 

Is not the price of bliss another's bale? 
Is glory not the flaming flower of sin? 

Then let them sleep, and dream that life is sweet, 
That friends are firm, that men can never lie, 

Forgetting Love hath wings on truant feet, 

That days will come when one may wish to die. 

[74 ] 



Selected Toems 



And when the feverish noon of life is past 
They reach the end appointed at our birth ; 

They gain what weary emperors crave at last, — 
A long, long sleep on breast of Mother Earth. 



THE RIGHT TO WORK 

There is work for all the millions, whether on the sea or 

land; 
Every human being's birthright brings a task unto his 

hand. 

Earth is ready for the toiler who may come to sow and 

reap, 
Ready for the delving miner, for the sailor on the deep. 

There are golden grains to garner, there are silver mines 

to dig, 
There are gardens of the melon, orchards of the peach 

and fig. 

There are pearls for every diver, corals waiting in the caves, 
There is wealth of mellow amber in the sweep of ocean 
waves. 

There are purpled-treasured vineyards, dangling with de- 
licious wines, 

Hives that overflow with honey, woods of oaks and elms 
and pines. 

There is work in forge and furnace, manufactory and mill, 
Work in farm and work in foundry, street of city, country 
hill. 

Work for poet, work for painter, work for him who carves 

and sings, 
Coming with an inspiration like the touch of angel wings. 

[ 75 ] 



Selected Poems 



And that longing for their labor in the freeman's hearts 

shall be 
Like the green blood of the springtime, tingling in the 

turf and tree. 

They are coming not as beggars, but as men demanding 

work; 
Not as vagabonds or vagrants, but as men who scorn to 

shirk. 

They are mouthing not for mercy, — justice only they de- 
mand, 

For the right to share the blessings of their great Creator's 
hand. 

Not for alms these men are asking, but the right to share 

the earth, 
Right to build, create, to chisel, right to claim their royal 

birth. 

But the Masters of the Market, bloated with their sense 
of might, 

Seek to wring from struggling brothers this their imme- 
morial right. 

As in brutal barbarous ages, they have dealt in souls of 

men, 
And humanity is bartered in these latter days as then. 

In their train is heard the murmur of a thousand million 

slaves, 
And behind them is a desert of a thousand million graves. 

So the tramp, the prowling vagrant, maddened for the 

want of bread, 
Makes the beggar, thief or robber, bends with shame his 

childrens' head. 

[ 76 ] 



Selected Poems 



So the homeless, hungry outcast, stealing sleepless through 

the night, 
Seeks in suicide a refuge from a world where Might is 

Right. 

So at last the ruined woman, once unscarred by brand 

of blame, 
Walks the streets of wicked cities dealing in a life of shame. 

Lo! the Masters of the Market dine from gold and silver 

plate, 
Parks and palaces surround them in their insolence of 

state. 

They have seized the fruits of labor, snatched the bread 

from those who toiled, 
They have crushed the patient peasant, all his vineyards 

have despoiled. 

While they seek their selfish pleasures, Lazarus at their 

gateway lags, 
While their wives are decked with jewels, peasant wives 

are hung with rags. 

While their darling dogs are petted, children cry from 

wasting want, 
While their stables all are sumptuous, men go wandering 

pinched and gaunt. 

They deny to manly merit this one right to manly toil, 
They deny to God's own children God's own fruits of sea 
and soil. 

Let them tremble! in the future looms the iron face of 

Fate; 
Let them tremble! no intrenchments shall protect their 

guilty state. 

[ 77 ] 



Selected Poems 



For the wrath of millions gathers in an overwhelming 

flood, 
And their march shall be resistless, and their cry be 

"Bread or Blood!" 



THE KLONDIKE 



Wrapped in a robe of everlasting snow, 
Where icy blasts eternal revel hold, 
Where gaunt pines shiver in the piercing cold, 
Where mellow summer noontides never glow, 
And sleety crags no springtime ever know — 
Thus, like a miser, in his freezing fold, 
The Arctic King has gathered heaps of gold 
To lead deluded wanderers unto woe. 

So in his radiant diamond palace there, 
Amid white splendors of his thousand thrones, 
Where keen auroras glitter, blaze and glare, 
And like a wandering Jew the wild wind moans, 
He smiles at wretches in their last despair, 
Who dig for gold among their comrades' bones. 



II 



About my home I see the springtime bloom, 
The sheaves of summer or the autumn fruits ; 
To make me glad, the robin lends his lute, 
The lilies blossom, lilacs breathe perfume, 
The red leaves flutter, golden asters loom. 
Around me, tones of loved ones, never mute, 
Are sweeter than the viol or the flute 
Through June-time gladness or December gloom. 

[ 78 ] 



Selected "Poems 



The daffodils their golden treasures pour 
By lapfuls to my children as they play; 
The vines, with clustered rubies at my door, 
Gladden my good wife through the livelong day; 
So in this humble nest, my wealth is more 
Than all the gold and silver dug from clay. 
1897. 



SUCCESS AND FAILURE 

One is a maiden crowned with locks of gold, 
With cheeks like morning in the summer skies; 

Around her, silken garments float and fold, 

And gems are gleaming with their peacock eyes. 

The other is her sister, thoughtful-browed, 
With ashen tresses and with eyes of gray, 

With shades of sadness lingering like a cloud 
Upon a visage like an autumn day. 

One, like an empress, holds the world in thrall, 
And millions prostrate lie before her car ; 

Her subjects dwell in every hut and hall, 
And swarms of flatterers seek her from afar. 

The other is forsaken by the world, 

Forgotten by the fickle sons of men ; 
Beside her, tattered conquered flags are furled 

That never in the skies shall float again. 

One is attended by the rich and proud, 

Praised by the voice of princes, queens and kings ; 
To welcome her, the drum is beat aloud, 

The bell goes pealing, and the cymbal rings. 

[ 79 ] 



Selected Toems 



One is attended by the friendless poor, 

The sunburnt peasant and the burdened slave; 

No callers ever knock upon her door, 

Her hearth is lonesome as an unknown grave. 

One counts the smooth time-server in her train, 
The crafty courtier and the fawning friend, 

Him, who like Faust, would sell his soul for gain, 
And him who filches means to win the end. 

The other notes the unknown soldier's name, 
And gives the homeless poet sympathy ; 

She cheers the martyr on his couch of flame, 
And teaches countless heroes how to die. 

The names they bear on earth need not be told ; 

But God will crown the one we love the less; 
He calls her "Failure," who hath locks of gold, 

And names her gray-haired sister there, "Success.' 



PRAYER BEFORE PLANTING TREES 

Lord, we are setting in this chosen ground 

These tender nurselings, trusting in Thy grace 

To cherish them through infancy, to guide 

Their tiny rootlets through the darksome earth, 

To lift their boughs to heaven, and give them power 

To yield their tribute unto grateful men 

In fruit or flower or shade. For who but Thou, 

And Thou alone, O God, amidst the gloom 

Of never-ending night beneath the sod, 

Can weave the network of those fragile roots, 

And make their long antennae feel the way 

To nooks of moisture and fertility? 

[ 80 ] 



Selected Poems 



And who but Thou can pilot up the stem 

The warm sweet sap, like green blood making glad 

The veinlets of the utmost little twig? 

And who but Thou, O Lord, in mystic wise, 

With alchemy divine, can from the earth, 

This sordid earth, extract pure essences 

To paint the cheeks of blossoms, scent their breath, 

To swell the fruits with lusciousness, and make 

The leafy boughs one mass of heavenly green, 

Haunts for the song-birds, cool retreats for men? 

Yea, all these powers are Thine. But on this day, 

In lowly imitation of Thine own 

Parental care, we plant these infant trees 

To be a blessing in the far-off years 

Unto our children and our childrens' children, 

When we ourselves shall tread the earth no more. 

Unselfish in Thy bounty, Thou hast strewn 

Blessings around us, though partaking not 

Thyself of that abundance which Thy hand 

Alone created. In the by-gone years, 

To please us Thou hast reared Thy goodly trees, 

Glowing with fruitage, spreading green with shade, 

Or clustered with delightsome odorous blooms. 

Shall we Thy largess take with selfish ease, 

And not in some small way, though feeble, seek 

To emulate Thy goodness, and bequeath 

Unto succeeding generations, gifts 

We never can share ourselves? O God of Love, 

Make us unselfish in this task: our hearts 

Uplift; and move our hands to speed with joy 

In this, our labor, whereby we shall seek 

To bless the lives of others yet to come, 

When we ourselves have mingled with the dust 

Wherein we plant these trees. 



[ 81 ] 



Selected "Poems 



In days to be, 
When we are long forgotten, may these boughs 
Rustle with gladness in the winds of Spring: 
Amongst them let the thrush at dusk and dawn, 
And the sweet mock-bird on moon-silvered nights, 
Warble their wild wood lays: here let the dove, 
Soft-cooing, woo his mate, and wooing, win, 
So that the two together here may brood 
Over their nest of love. Upon these boughs, 
From April unto April, June to June, 
Hang the soft blossoms through the emerald glooms, 
Wafting sweet odors, and with honey-dew 
Burdening the murmuring bees. Here let the sheep 
And cattle through the fervid blaze of noon, 
Chewing the cud, dozing and drowsing, rest 
Free from the torrid glare. Here hang Thy fruits, 
Ruddy or tawny, apple, peach or pear, 
To make the hearts of barefoot urchins glad 
When school is over, and the lads go free, 
Shouting and romping noisily: for they, 
O Father, are Thy children, and we know 
Their clamorous joyhood Thou wilt mark with smiles, 
Pleased that these thoughtless ones are happy. Here 
Let gentle lovers in the friendly shades, 
With scattered petals at their feet, and songs 
Of sweet encouragement from sprays above, 
Wander in joy, and vow the dear old vows 
Of love that we ourselves, in our lost youth 
Of forgotten years of long ago, 
Were thrilled with bliss to hear. 

And in those days, 
Dear Father, when our names from minds of men 
Have all been canceled, and we lie alone, 
Forsaken and forgotten, dust in dust, 
Perchance Thine eyes may look upon these trees, 

[ 82 ] 



Selected Toems 



Still hale and green and sturdy, and Thy heart 

Incline to pity and to mercy: so 

For sake of these, from records of our souls 

Thy hand may blot some past transgression. Then, 

O Father, as Thou liftest up to heaven 

The tree in verdure and in flower and fruit, 

Uplift us likewise from our dungeon-cell 

In the dark earth, and in the radiant skies 

Let us rejoice to see Thy Light again. 



TO MIKE CONNOLLY ON HIS 62nd BIRTHDAY 

Mike! You have lived to see another Spring 
Coming in joyous triumph as of old, 
And you shall hear once more the red-bird sing, 
And see the hyacinth sprouting from the mould. 

Yes, we are still here. But the friends we knew 
In many a happy scene of youthful days, 
Have left us. Though a thousand trumpets blew, 
None could recall them to our earthly ways. 

Yea, though the Springtime pours her gentle showers, 
And bids the ice-bound rills of Winter flow, 
Though all her songsters greet her opening flowers, 
She wakens not the sleepers there below. 

But we, the friends still left thee by the years, 
After thy long life's double share of pain 
Rejoice to see thee spared the fatal shears, 
Not young indeed, yet not upon the wane. 

Not perfect thou! No, not a tiresome saint 
Sent to reproach us with thy faultlessness, 
And chain good fellowship in dull restraint, — 
Wert thou less faulty we had loved thee less! 

[ 83 ] 



Selected Poems 



Not on a snow-clad peak, whose wintry gale 

Stings keenly, and whose white waste blinds the eyes, 

Thou dwellest, but within a lowly vale 

Often in shadow, yet with lovely skies. 

Thine is the word of cheer, the kindly hand, 
The loyal friendship and unshaken trust, 
And thine the voice that in a weary land 
Uplifts thy fallen brother from the dust. 

Long flourish ! But when quitting haunts of men 
To greet old comrades on some happier shore, 

mayest thou, Michael, blithe and young again, 
Rejoice to greet the Springtime as of yore! 

A GIFT OF FLOWER SEEDS 

To the Boys of a Reform School 

Dear boys, the gift I send you is but small, 
A trifle men and women might disdain ; 
Yet with it I have sent my heart to all, 
Hoping the poor remembrance not in vain. 

Your lives have never known their rightful share 
Of sweetness or of beauty or of joy; 
Before your time, man's heavy load of care 
Has weighted down the shoulders of the boy. 

You have a right divine to happiness, 

To claim just measure of this world's delight, 

And shun acquaintance of the soul's distress 

While heaven-born Youth forbears to take his flight. 

Perchance you strayed from duty; but in truth 

1 love you all the better as you are : 

God gave you that impassioned heart of youth, 
And the wild wayward feet that roved afar ! 

[ 84 ] "■■''! 



Selected Poems 



These walls must never be your boyhood's tomb: 
Your days not all delightless, you shall know 
A little portion of the splendid bloom 
That sets the Spring and Summer fields aglow. 

Old-fashioned flowers you shall have, like those 
That once, perchance, in lost years far away, 
Around the doorway of your home arose, 
Beaming upon you in your happy play. 

You shall have pansies, purple, golden, pied, 
And fragrant sweet-peas, white and pink and red, 
While tawny tiger-lilies in their pride 
Shall lift behind the pathway where you tread. 

Nasturtiums there shall be, of orange hue, 
And brilliant poppies, flaunting scarlet flame, 
While morning-glories of celestial blue 
Shall be as lovely as their lovely name. 

White lilies you shall have, sweet as the days 
Before your feet in banishment were driven, 
And they shall breathe of long-untrodden ways, 
Of mother, father, and of home and heaven. 

So, when the lowly earth-strewn blooms you see, 
Or those that cluster in the vines above, 
Your hearts may turn one moment unto me, 
Remembering that I sent them with my love. 



C 85 ] 



Selected Toems 



THE LIGHTS OF THE CITY 

Here in this quaint old farmhouse, late at night, 
Soft pillows woo me vainly: slumberless, 
Tossing unrestful, weary eyes I turn 
Unto the window by my bed, and gaze 
On the dark skies without. Faintly I hear 
Whispers of wandering winds through leafless trees 
A lamb, housed with its mother in the fold, 
Bleats pleadingly, and then is still : a cow, 
Dozing beneath her shelter, stirs a little, 
Half rouses, and breathes deeply; but ere long 
She too is quiet. Through the ancient house 
Lie all the other inmates, fast asleep: 
I only am awake. 

With all this peace 
And restf ulness about me ; in this calm 
That Nature, like a benediction, folds 
Around me, and around the little world 
Of simple beings where I stay to-night, — 
My soul will not be soothed to harmony 
With scenes reposeful. For without, I see, 
Like a great silvery Moondawn in the North, 
Lights of the far-off City, and my heart, 
Forgetful of this homely humdrum life, 
With all its sober joys and sorrows, turns 
To you, O haunts endeared and unforgot, 
Ways where my brothers tread in grief or joy, 
And where in triump or in ruin sweep 
The tidal-billows of humanity! 
Yea, beast and bird and tree, when I have fled 
To arms of Nature from the noisy crowd, 
May yield me solace ; but at last I turn 
To you with deepest and sincerest love, 

C 86 ] 



Selected Poems 



O City, wilful, wild and passionate, 
O City, kind yet cruel, warm yet cold, 
Dread masterpiece of cunning hands of clay, 
Boast, beauty and brilliance of Mortality, 
The gloom-enshrouded glory of the world! 

My heart hath wandered back to thee, O scene 
Of splendor and of squalor, bliss and pain, 
Laughter and jest and singing, dance and play, 
Of moaning and of misery and despair, — 
Owner of all things but Contentedness, 
Giver of all things but the pearl of Peace! 

Like gorgeous poppies, purple, yellow and red, 
Thy varicolored lights are blooming; there, 
Dazzlingly white, a star-rayed Cereus 
That blossoms only in the fields of night, 
Glitters the great electric flames. Athwart 
Thy radiant world, what scowling shadows fall 
From those resplendent lamps! 

Stretched on a cot 
In a dark room, where a pale candle's beam 
Flickers as feebly as the wavering life 
Beneath it, one is dying. Not afar 
Is heard a childish wail, whereby we know 
Another soul has entered into the world, 
To take the dead man's place. In festal halls 
Are mirth and wine and music. In a cell 
Stone-floored and iron-grated, cowers a wretch 
Who gaily danced and feasted through his day, 
And now, clanking his chain, the debt repays. 
Here the young painter in his attic loft, 
Despite the mean surroundings, labors on, 
Hopeful of fame and fortune. In the parks 
Lounge the old derelicts, who, long ago, 
Likewise had plans for conquest of the world, 

[ 87 ] 



Selected Poems 



But subjugated now in dark defeat, 

Devise brave schemes no longer. Through the night 

Bedless and supperless, the vagabonds 

Mumble and drowse and grumble. Strange indeed, 

That though the sheep are gathered safe in fold, 

And herds of cattle all are snugly housed, 

Still the great herds of fallen humanity 

Wander unshepherded, unloved and lost! 

Rambling these streets, the rustic lad, whose heart, 

Burning with high hope, scorned the prosy farm, 

Now seeks his fortune in the town. Ah, boy, 

Hast ever, in secluded fields at home, 

Or in dark wild woods there, felt loneliness 

As deep as in this human wilderness? 

And yet, if thou art lonely, lonelier still 

Is the gray scholar, who in that vast throng 

Is known of all men, yet misunderstood! 

His face men recognize ; they call his name : 

And yet he roams a stranger still. He speaks, 

But none will hear, or hearing, comprehend. 

O deep-souled, pensive wise man, how profound, 

How hopeless is thy solitude ! The cave 

Of the lone hermit in the desert waste 

Keeps not its tenant further from mankind 

Than high thoughts in the heart of one who roves 

A wanderer through the frivolous multitude. 

Here, nimble-footed, happy-hearted, trips 
Youth, with the downy cheeks and dewy eyes, 
Youth, with the frank face and the eager air, — 
Fresh as the Springtime, radiant as the dawn! 
All the world wooes thee with insidious arts, 
Careless, wild-bosomed Youth! Snares it hath woven 
To trip thy feet. Yet I, who fear for thee, 
While warning thee, have not the heart to chide. 
God gave to thee that flaming spirit : He 
Surely will guide thee to the rightful way. 

[ 88 ] 



Selected Toetns 



Here the frail sister, who in sweet slain years 
Was gladdest of all gladsome bonnibels, 
Strays now bedraggled in the mire of sin, 
Haunting the night-time like an evil dream. 
And yet, poor outcast, fallen as thou art, 
Still art thou daughter of the King of Kings, 
And sister of the pure and stainless Christ. 
Nor ever will that Father, erring child, 
Disown thee: and upon this very night, 
Thine Elder Brother calls thee, claims thee still, 
And knocks upon the portals of thine heart. 

But now, O turbulent City, midnight comes: 

My weary eyes must turn away. Forget 

In gentle sleep thy sufferings and thy sins, 

Thy vain ambitions and thy fleeting joys. 

With God's hand resting on thy fevered brow, 

Be as a little child that sinks to rest: 

Peace, peace, wild-hearted City, — rest in peace! 



THE DYING TREE 

Old veteran who hast fought three hundred years, 
Three hundred winters with their sleets and snows, 
And welcomed back from exile, Spring by Spring, 
The South wind as thine ally and thy friend, — 
At last thy great campaigns are over ; now 
Nears to its end thy long and blameless life. 

Dear old companion of my boyhood hours, 
Our neighbor on that day when I was born, 
Our neighbor on that day my father died, — 
You knew old friends of mine who past away, 
Gone to the churchyard — scattered over earth ; 
Now comes thy summons, and my list of friends 
Shall lessen as thou goest on before. 

[ 89 ] 



Selected Toems 



Ah, thou wert true in many, many things, 
And never wast thou false to aught on earth ; 
Ah, thou hast showered blessings many times, 
But never have thy branches waved a curse. 
Gift after gift hath fallen from thy hands, 
Though no one ever brought a gift to thee. 
The blue jay from thy branches, like a shrew, 
Hath fumed and fretted at some crawling snake ; 
The crow hath croaked and quarreled from thy limbs, 
The owl hath cried, the whippoorwill complained; 
In Summer, doves have mourned among thy leaves, 
In Winter, winds have moaned among thy boughs; 
But never, in the seasons foul or fair, 
Hast thou spoke ill of any living thing. 

Through fiery noons the patient sheep have lain, 
Cud-chewing, dozing in thy grateful shade ; 
The squirrel found a home within thy trunk, 
Thy boughs were free for nest of every bird ; 
Thine acorns fell to please the chuckling swine, 
The chipmunk scooped a lodging at thy roots; 
The raccoon and opossum, close pursued, 
Found refuge from the hunter and his hounds. 
Yet not one bird that ever flew through heaven, 
And not one crawling creature of the ground, 
Gave thanks for shelter, refuge, or a home, 
Or brought thee gold or silver for thy pains. 

There too, a boy, I dreamed my foolish dreams 
As long, long Summer days would wax and wane ; 
Lost in the pages of some magic book, 
I fancied for myself its glorious deeds. 
Thou sawest when my wild, impatient feet, 
Left the old farm to wander through the world ; 
Thou sawest me when I left thee, full of hope, 
And then, long after, in defeat return. 
Then lying at thy feet, mine aching heart 
Learned its hard lesson, — patience with its lot. 

[ 90 ] 



Selected Poems 



No wise man ever said thou hadst a soul, 

No creed hath promised thee a hope of heaven ; 

Yet thou, without inducement of reward, 

Eschewed all Evil, giving only Good. 

The artist dreams of palms of Paradise, 

The poet sings of meeting friends in heaven ; 

And thou, fast-rooted by the stream of life 

Shouldst be at home in Eden, as on earth. 

Then, since no man can rend the secret veil, 

Who knows that you and I shall never meet again? 



THE AGNOSTICS CREED 

At last I have ceased repining, at last I accept my fate ; 
No longer I beat at the Portal, I have ceased to knock at 

the Gate ; 
I have ceased to work at the Puzzle, for the Secret I have 

ended my search, 
And I know that the Key is entrusted to never a creed or 

church. 

They have threatened with lakes of fire, they have threat- 
ened with fetters of hell ; 

They have offered me heights of heaven with their fields of 
asphodel ; 

But the Threat and the Bribe are useless if Reason be 
strong and stout, 

And an honest man can never surrender an honest doubt. 

The fables of hell and of heaven are but worn-out Christmas 

toys, 
To coax or to bribe or to frighten the grown-up girls and 

boys; 
I have ceased to be an infant, I have traveled beyond their 

span, — 
It may do for women and children, but it never will do for a 

man. 

[ 91 ] 



Selected Poems 



They are all alike, these churches, Mohammedan, Chris- 
tian, Parsee; 

You are vile, you are curst, you are outcast, if you be not 
as they be ; 

But my Reason stands aginst them, and I go as it bids me go, 

Its commands are as calls of a trumpet, and I follow for 
weal or woe. 

But O, it is often cheerless, and O, it is often chill, 

And I often sigh to heaven as my path grows steep and still. 

I have left behind my comrades, with their prattle and 

childish noise; 
My boyhood now is behind me, with all of its broken toys! 

I have renounced my dream of heaven, with its siren song of 

hope, 
And I know that beyond the darkness no vision of man can 

grope. 
I am treading the mountain heights alone, through the 

silent flakes of snow, 
And I long for the hut of the herdsman, far down, with its 

hearth aglow. 

They may sing in the lowly valleys, where the milkmaid 

flirts with her swain, 
But he who would scale the mountains must stifle in silence 

his pain. 
Let the girls and the boys go churchward, and let them 

believe and receive, — 
The Thinker may envy the thoughtless, but Reason he 

cannot deceive. 

He must seek the Good for the Good's own sake, and not 

for the hope of heaven, 
He must flee from Wrong from dislike of Wrong, and not by 

the devil driven ; 



[ 92 ] 



Selected Poems 



He distrusts the virtue that works for reward, the virtue 

that clamors for pay, 
And spurns the piety spurred by fear to depart from the 

evil way. 

He is friend of every religion, of Socrates, Buddha or Christ, 
There is good in all of the dogmas, though none of them 

ever sufficed ; 
The evil that cankers among them he tosses away to dust, 
But he seeks and he treasures the jewels he picks from 

their charnel rust. 

He may pray not, public or private, a hypocrite plea for 

his foes, 
But he never longs for Gehenna to swallow them in its woes ; 
He would welcome annihilation, where the dawn comes 

never again, 
Rather than behold one foeman condemned to an endless 

pain. 

He never pretends acquaintance of a God he never knew, 

Nor pretends to receive revelations not given to me or you ; 

Though he loves the summit's grandeur, and the forest's 
holy hush, 

He pretends no one-man message from mountain or burn- 
ing bush. 

He boasts of no Royal Favor, of no deity friend at Court, — 
He knows on his own weak merits he must find his only 

support. 
He cares not for circumcision, baptism, Atonement or Fall, 
For the Jew and the Mormon and Brahmin are but man- 
kind, after all. 

He has carved no hideous idol, and said it was God that 

frowned, 
He has mapped no petty province and declared it Holy 

Ground. 

[ 93 ] 



Selected Voems 



God lives not alone for the Hindoo, nor the Congo blacka- 
moor, 
But alike for every nation, and alike for the rich and poor. 

That God has no holy cities, for in all there is evil and 
good; 

In Paris, Jerusalem, Mecca, alike have His temples stood. 

That God has no chosen people, no heathens to slight or 
scorn, 

For they all are His lawful children, to His royal house- 
hold born. 

Oh, that God of gods is glorious, the emperor of every land ; 
He carries the moon and the planets in the palm of His 

mighty hand ; 
He is girt with the belt of Orion, He is Lord of the suns and 

stars, 
A wielder of Constellations, of Canopus, Arcturus and Mars! 

I believe in Love and Duty, I believe in the True and Just; 
I believe in the common kinship of everything born from 

dust. 
I hope that the Right will triumph, that the sceptred 

Wrong will fall, 
That Death will at last be defeated, that the Grave will 

not end all. 

I believe in the martyrs and heroes who have died for the 

sake of Right, 
And I promise, like them, to follow in my Reason's faithful 

light; 
If my Reason errs in judgment, I but honestly strive as 

I can; 
If a God decrees my downfall, I shall stand it like a man. 



[ 94 ] 



Selected Poems 



THE UNION OF THE SEAS 

On the Completion of the Panama Canal. 

Athwart the Isthmian realm, — that slender band 

Wherewith God holds two continents in leash, — 

We lay this thread of ocean, and with eyes 

Averted to the past a moment, then 

Turned forward, make a forecast of the years 

Yet hidden in the voiceless future. Here, 

Four hundred years ago, that sturdy knight, 

Balboa, striding through the yellow sands 

Marging the vast Pacific, reached the waves 

Of the gray King of Oceans, and with feet 

Adventurous braved the flood, till round his knees 

The surging waters murmured. On the beach 

Behind him, Spanish veterans, browned and scarred 

From savage warfare under tropic skies, 

Stood with the dusk barbarians of this land, 

Naked like graceful porphyry statues, — all 

Gazing intently on their leader's form 

As it strode onward. From above, the sun, 

In his prime glory, deluged all the sea 

With molten gold. At last the Knight stood still, 

In shining armor panoplied, with plumes 

Nodding above his brows, a glittering sword 

Uplifted in his right hand, while his left 

Upheld the banner of triumphant Spain, 

Gorgeous in saffron and in scarlet hues. 

Then rearing high that banner and that sword, 

The Great Sea, with its golden continents 

And palmy isles unnumbered, one and all, 

He called on heaven to witness, hence should be 

Domains forever of Iberia's King. 

[ 95 ] 



Selected Toems 



For two long savage centuries from that day 

The history of this fated land but seemed 

A chronicle of groans, — mildewed with tears, 

And writ with sword-points dipped in human gore. 

Here was it that Piazarro first imbibed 

His lessons in the school of cruelty, 

And from these shores he swooped upon the south 

To be its modern Attila. Here Drake, 

That Tamerlane of ocean, scoured the shores 

With torch and steel. That king of buccaneers, 

Morgan, here burned the palace, robbed the hut, 

Sacked cities, clogged the streets with slaughtered men, 

And wrought such havoc in the Spaniard's house, 

As more than paid in vengeance all the wrongs 

Of Aztec or of Inca in the past. 

But we, unlike that western Chief of Huns, 

And those grim Tartars of the sea, come not 

To pillage, burn or slay: nor even yet 

Like stout Balboa, do we come to claim 

A lordship over continents or isles 

Or oceans. For we come with peaceful hands 

To raise a trophy not baptized in blood, 

But in the sweat of generous toil ; to rear 

A monument, not to ourselves alone, 

But all humanity; to dedicate 

A high memorial, not to kings or queens, 

But unto patient Labor and to Skill. 

Yea! it shall be a fane for all the world, 

Offered to God, and all the sons of God. 

This modern wonder of the world we raise 

Not for caprice, or pride or vanity, 

But daily use; prosaic it may seem, 

Prosaic as our daily meat and bread, 
And yet, God grant it may ever be 

A blessing like that good but homely food. 

[ 96 ] 



Selected Poems 



Here are no Hanging Gardens, reared aloft 
To please some idle princess : here arise 
No monstrous pyramids, like hills of stone, 
Costing innumerous lives of groaning slaves, 
Yet cumbering earth, and useless unto Man: 
Nor have we here a mausoleum, raised 
To keep alive some deedless name, that else 
The indifferent world had canceled from its mind. 
This is the work of free men, made to bless 
No pampered favorite, but the multitude, 
A highway for the living, not a cave 
With dusty catacombs for mummied forms 
Of long- forgotten despot Pharaohs. 

Here all the argosies of all the world 

May pass in peace. A worthy sequel here 

The voyage of Columbus finds ; and here 

We see a climax to the glorious deeds 

That Vasco and Magellan gave mankind. 

And here is found a work that typifies 

The race of Morse and Fulton, — that same race 

That made the vapor's fragile wreath become 

A chained leviathan to draw great ships 

Over long leagues of ocean ; that compelled 

The lightning's flash to bear its torch, uplift 

Its burdens like a willing slave, and speak 

Its message unto Iceland or to Ind. 

But still, with hearts regretful we confess 

That seeking for the Useful, we have oft 

Passed heedless by the Beautiful. Our sires, 

Felling the gloomy forests, and at war 

With wild-beast or with savage, might not pause 

To heed the thrush's lyric; nor have we, 

Building the city, tunneling through the mount, 

Or interveining barren desert sands 

With fruitful man-made rivers, ceased from work 

To learn the violet's mission. Yet the toil 

[ 97 ] 



Selected Poems 



Of plain Utility shall build the bridge, 

And pave the highway to the fane of Art, 

Where all the noblest lessons of this life 

Our children shall be taught. And may our God 

Soon send that purple age ! For now we stand 

No longer pioneers ; raiment and food 

No longer are our only needs. The True, the Good, 

The Beautiful, — that Trinity of Earth, — 

Must be the end of all enlightenment; 

And as the traveler circling round the globe 

Only returns at last from whence he came, 

So all true Progress, with these three beginning, 

Though wandering far, must yet to these return. 

Oft have we stumbled on our forward course, 

And oft shall stumble yet, ere we attain 

Our white ideal. In the past our sins 

Have led our feet astray, and coming years 

Shall see us stray again. And yet, O God, 

We pray Thee, lift and lead us onward still, 

Hopeful though erring. Ever hallowed keep 

Within our hearts the memories of those 

Who made our country great, — men of the mould 

Of Washington, of Lincoln and of Lee. 

And in our lapsings, let us not forget 

That never yet hath Springtime come to bring 

Her joyance to the world, without dark days 

Of frost and winds of Winter that delayed 

The leaf and blossom : that no man may climb 

The mountain by a straight unvarying path, 

But by a labyrinthine trail that winds 

And twists and turns, upward and downward leading 

Ere it attains the summit of the peak: 

That never yet hath saint arisen to heaven 

Without some sin that burdened down his wings, 

Or soiled the whiteness of his heavenly robes, 

Keeping in doubt his victory to the end. 

[ 98 ] 



Selected Poems 



That nation can not stray afar that keeps 

Ever before its mind the simple worth 

And courage unadorned of those plain men 

Who freed this land from pestilence, — those men 

Of unromantic lives, in days of prose, 

Who yet braved death, giving themselves to stings 

Of poisonous insect pests that bore the seeds 

Of the foul plague. Not pompously they went 

Into the jaws of Pestilence, and yet 

How glorious was their battle! Overthrown, 

The enemy they met shall nevermore 

Reap his dread harvest. And these heroes died, 

Or, hovering near the iron-gated tomb, 

Were snatched from death by heaven. Their names 

obscure 
No poet sings : no magic legendry 
Is woven round their story. In their lives 
No bugle urged them on, no banner streamed, 
No high-born lady from her castle-tower 
Waved them adieu. Above those who are gone, 
No marble cenotaph, no eulogy 
From lips of oratory, and no shout 
From fervent multitudes, uplifts in praise. 
Yet never rode a knight through Arthur's realm, 
Seeking the Holy Grail, that wore a plume 
Whiter than their devotion : never a king 
Taking his throne on Coronation morn 
Wore ermine that was purer! 

Then, O Lord, 
Make us esteem their names forever! Make 
Thy servants ever emulate their deeds; 
Make us unselfish, striving for the good, 
As they strived, hopeless of reward. And make 
Thy servants seek to purify the world 
Of all uncleanness of the heart, as they 
Saved pure men's bodies from the unclean plague' 

[ 99 ] 



Selected Poems 



All these things grant us, Lord. And speed that day, 
That day desired through long millenniums, 
When man is truly worthy of his Sire. 
And as we now in wedlock shall unite 
These mighty oceans, grant that all the tribes 
And kingdoms of the world shall soon be one, 
Blest with one common hope, one end and aim, 
One stainless flag, one Fatherland, One God. 



TO A JUDGE 

O thou who wieldest for one fleeting day 
The power that belongs alone to God : — 
O idol moulded out of common clay, 
To sway one little hour an iron rod, — 

Dost thou not tremble to assume thy seat, 
And judge thy fellow-travelers to the tomb? 
Dost thou not falter as thy lips repeat 
Thy Comrade's downfall, thy Companion's doom? 

A word from you, and Fortune flies away, 

While silks and satins tatters into rags ; 

The banquet revellers scatter in dismay, 

And Pride and Pomp haul down their flaunting flags. 

You sentence, and your brother, lost to light, 
Sits crouching in a dungeon dark and damp ; 
No stream can ever wash his brow to white 
From inky impress of your iron stamp. 

He bids farewell to all things fair and sweet, 
Exiled from fields and forests, blooms and birds; 
He hears no more his children's pattering feet, 
Their liquid lisping of their mother's words. 

[ 100 ] 



Selected Poems 



Your hapless fellow-man must heed your call 
To mount the scaffold, — you have power to kill, 
And Life, the greatest miracle of all, 
Is ended in obedience to your will. 

Your softest speech may smirch the fairest name, — 
What reputations hang upon your breath ! 
Your fiats may translate from fame to shame, 
Or bring dishonor blacker-hued than death. 

Then be so wise, so merciful, so kind, 

The words "Well done!" may never come begrudged; 

For thou, the master, shalt a Master find, 

And thou who judgest soon shalt be adjudged. 



THE LAD IN HANDCUFFS 

Being Carried to Prison 

Thy fault was trivial, but our man-made law, 

Which lets the strong break through, yet holds the weak, 

Hath clutched the captive in its vulture-claw, 
And fed thy young heart to its vulture-beak. 

Thy very vigor urged thee on to harm ; 

Thy courage bade thee snatch forbidden fruit; 
Walls tempted thee to use that lithe young arm; 

Those slender, swift limbs yearned for Joy's pursuit. 

That vigor made thee wild and spirited, 

And planted mischief in thy boyish breast — 

Youth will be youth, as long as cheeks are red, 
As long as Spring is sweet, or Life has zest! 

Green fields and groves were made to feast thine eyes, 

Big brother unto Puck and all the elves ! 
And they should mirror back the Summer skies, 

Not bluer and not brighter than themselves. 

[ 101 ] ; 



Selected Poems 



Those nimble feet were formed to wander free, 
Caressed and kissed by daisies drenched in dew, 

To wade the brawling brook, to climb the tree, 

And lead thee where thy darling dreams come true. 

Those downy lips should whistle like a bird 

In vine-clad woodlands of the month of May — 

O boy, to think some man may speak one word, 
And brush the beauty of thy life away ! 

Those strong brown hands, fast-fettered in their shame, 
An eaglet's cunning talons locked in steel, 

Were made to govern flood and frost and flame, 
And bring all Nature underneath thy heel. 

God gave dominion unto thee, my man, 

To take the silken leopard in a snare, 
To hurl the harpoon in leviathan, 

And seize the raging lion in his lair ! 

Yet thou art doomed to mope behind the bars, 
And bend thy proud young neck beneath a rod, 

O Son of Him who rules the Suns and Stars, 
O splendid youthful image of thy God ! 

THE SOLDIER BOY 

soldier boy, my soldier boy, 

1 see you march away 
While fifes and bugles play, 
Bright, brave and debonair, 

With Springtime in your clear blue eyes 
and in your sunny hair. 

O soldier boy, my soldier boy, 
There in the morning sky 
The brilliant banners fly, 
And in the shouting street 
Are lovely maidens who are scattering 
flowers at thy feet. 

[ 102 ] 



Selected Toems 



Yet soldier boy, my soldier boy, 
Soon shall yon flag be torn, 
Yon bugle peal forlorn, 
And not one lonely bloom 
Of all that scatter on thee here shall 
grace thy lowly tomb. 

O soldier boy, my soldier boy, 
Yon eager-hearted maid 
When thou in dust art laid 
Tearful, shall pine alone; 
O bonny lad, the Queen of Death shall 
claim thee for her own! 



HAD LINCOLN LIVED 

Had Lincoln lived, the aftermath of war, 

More terrible than war itself, had lost 

Half of the miseries of its harvesting. 

But Lincoln passed away, and there the South 

Lost her best friend! I seem to hear him say: 

"Now, boys, the War is over: stack your arms: 

Let us be brothers once again. No, no, 

My friends, don't strike them when they're down ! They 

fought us 
Fairly and squarely, and they gave us all 
We could well stand, I tell you! But we won, 
And having won, why not be satisfied? 
Come, come, let us shake hands, forget the past, 
And let old grudges die." Such words indeed 
He uttered, but the shock of sudden death 
Thwarted his kindly purpose, and deferred 
The era of good will and brotherhood 
Through a dark age of virulence. 

[ 103 ] 



Selected "Poems 



But still 
I love to think of Lincoln living on 
After the roar of conflict long had past. 
Had he thus lived, — the martyr's aureole 
Encircling not his brows, the martyr's doom, 
Shedding no awful grandeur on his name, — 
I feel that none the less would we to-day 
Yield him our hearts. For, not mythologized 
Beyond all recognition, he would stand 
The simple, homely, gentle soul he was, 
Faithful and honest as the plain old sod, 
And good and wholesome as the daily bread 
That plain old sod produces. 

So I seem 
To see him living to a great old age. 
White are his locks with years, but still his form 
Rears vigorous. In a little country town, 
Under an old green leafy tree, before 
Some village lawyer's office, sits the man 
Who freed the bondman and restored the State. 
For now he comes to visit well-known scenes 
Of boyhood, and we see him seated, calm, 
Peaceful and cheerful in an easy chair, 
Whittling a stick. Round him, a throng of friends, 
Old comrades of the long-lost years, is drawn. 
His lank and rugged frame, his awkward limbs, 
And his quaint, kindly face, we easily know 
As we first see him. At his feet, a dog 
Lies peacefully dozing. Hitched to the same tree 
That shades the group, a farmer's horse and wagon 
Are waiting; for the owner of the team 
Has left the driver's seat, and stands with awe 
Viewing the man who was once President. 
As Lincoln slowly whittles on his stick, 



[ 104 ] 



Selected Poems 



And tells his anecdotes, in loud guffaws 

His friends respond: or, now and then one speaks, 

Asking a question, or familiarly 

Bantering "Old Abe," as they all fondly call him. 

But though he loves his jests, his every thought 

Is sound and weighty: simple are his words, 

Yet terse and wise, and true as truth itself. 

And though he loves the sturdy sound of laughter, 

In his worn face and in his patient eyes 

One reads the story of those weary years 

Of suffering, when he stood and steered the ship 

Of his great Nation into port again. 

Ah, never was he happy in those times, 

With all that weight upon him, as he now 

Is happy in this little country town, 

Among his old friends of the long ago! 

Like Diocletian with his cabbages, 

Dalmatia he prefers to purple Rome ! 

So we will leave him in these sunset years 

Soft and reposeful, and a while believe 

The picture true to history. And I like 

The picture better than the rigid Fact. 

They tell us that the pure white ray of light 
Is woven of the seven prismatic hues 
That deck the rainbow. To the weary eye 
Longing for rest, those hues are lovelier 
Than all the dazzling radiance of the noon. 
So, Lincoln's memory I would not enrobe 
In the white, blinding light of Saintliness, 
But in the tints that wed to make that light, — 
The colors of the noble heavenly arch, 
Spanning our dark clouds after dreadful war, — 
The tender vernal green of joy, the calm 
Celestial blue of prudent thought, the gold 
Of wisdom's mellow age, the violet 

[ 105 ] 



Selected "Poems 



Of sweet humility, and the warm red 

Of glowing human kindness. And although 

This memory of the Martyred one may lack 

That other memory's lofty dignity, 

Be sure the world had known and prized his worth, 

And loved him none the less, — had Lincoln lived! 



THE GREEK BOY 

To this cheap restaurant I sometimes come 

And see him working. Now he scrubs the floor, 

Now sets the chairs, now with a nimble step 

He waits here at my table. As I look 

Upon his poor surroundings here to-night, 

I mutter, "Evil days have come to thee 

And thine, O boy of Hellas!" But I muse 

Deeply upon him, and his fine young face 

Allures me more and more. That pure white brow, 

Shadowed by glossy, jetty hair; those eyes, 

More softly brown than brown Autumnal woods 

At twilight ; and that curving boyish mouth 

Smiling so sweetly, — youth of Hellas, while 

I gaze upon you, these environments, 

Sordid and low, evanish, and with thee 

I seem to wander in a happier land, 

And in an age more glorious. Here the peak 

Of Helicon arises, forested 

In paradisal green, with crystal springs 

Gushing from out of its bosom. On the steep 

Of Latmos, with thy flocks, a shepherd lad 

Thou roamest, and when moondawn in the east 

Silvers the balmy night, thy Cynthia comes 

To clasp and kiss thee, her Endymion. 

On Lesbos, thine own Sappho strikes her harp 

To flaming lyrics as she pines for thee 

C 106 ] 



Selected Poems 



In all thy fresh young beauty. Under the snows 

Of smoking Aetna, from the bending vines 

Thou pluckest the purple grapes, and from the shades 

Of cypress and of pine thou gazest forth 

On yellowing wheat-fields with Theocritus. 

Athens arises with her marble fanes 

In all their olden splendor. Corinth wakes 

From ruins into stately palaces, 

And Argos, loved of Hera, lifts again 

The walls long leveled by barbaric hands. 

Yea, in thine eyes I see the Spartan fire 

That flamed in glances of Leonidas 

Facing the Persians at the dreaded Pass. 

But now I start, and look about me. Gone, 

All gone, those visions ! Once again I see 

Only the mean appointments of this place, — 

Low walls and dingy ceilings, battered chairs 

And rickety tables : now I hear alone 

The clatter of plates and knives and forks and spoons, 

Yells of the waiters, and the noise of crowds 

Talking but never thinking: and I sit 

An exile in an unfamiliar land, 

Unnoticed, — dazed and silenced by the din, 

Babble and jargon of an age of prose. 



THE REBEL 

You were known of old, Johnny Rebel, to soldier, to prince 

and to priest, 
In the aeons ere Egypt had risen, or the Aryans tramped 

from the East ; 
Antedating dynasties of China, more ancient than Gypsy 

or Jew, 
Religions, languages, empires, are of yesterday unto you. 

[ 107 ] 



Selected Poems 



yes, well I know they denounce you ; you have long been 

under the ban ; 

1 know that they hunt and they hound you, and they 

crucify when they can ; 
For you is the fetter, the fagot, and for you is the dungeon 

cell, 
And for you in another existence are provided the torments 

of hell. 

Ah, the prince and the priest and the soldier, how they 

yearn to possess your head ! 
Ah, the prince and the priest and the soldier, how they 

chuckle when they think you dead ! 
For you flout them all and defy them, with their mitres 

and sceptres and swords, — 
These owners of earth and of heaven, these heirs of the 

Lord of Lords! 

But you look on them all as upstarts, their threats as but 
bluster and brag; 

To you the crown is but tinsel, and the royal robe is a rag; 

They may boast of their arms and escutcheons, of succes- 
sion from Peters or Pauls; 

You remember their fathers as butchers, or as keepers of 
cobblers' stalls. 

You remember their little beginnings in the scramble to 

reach the top, 
How they grabbed and they gouged and they elbowed to 

palace from tailor-shop; 
Your memory is vilely tenacious; old foemen you seldom 

forget ; 
You fought them while climbing the ladder, — on the roof 

you will fight them yet ! 



[ 108 ] 



Selected Toems 



On the wild, bleak Steppes with the Tartars, you defied the 

Chief of the clan; 
On the sands of Arabian desert you rebelled at the sheik 

and the khan; 
You clinched with the robber-barons in the teeth of their 

castled crags, 
And you face the Yankee moguls on their ramparts of 

money-bags. 

This world of the men who are living is controlled by the 

men who are dead ; 
This age of the vital present holds the past in a nameless 

dread ; 
We may boast of our strength and cunning, and scoff at the 

folk of the dust, 
But the beings who make us or mar us, lie under the 

mundane crust. 

The catiffs, freebooters and pirates of the mediaeval gloom 
Still stalk in their ghostly armor, and decide for us still our 

doom; 
The medicine-men and witch-doctors, in a time when men 

are called free 
Still set up their icons and idols, where we mumble and bend 

the knee. 

We may boast of our modern freedom, but the thoughts 

that we think we think 
Were exhumed from the charnel and coffin, — you can trace 

them link by link! 
O yes! we are free, we are footloose, but a dead hand pokes 

from its hole, 
And we find, when we seek to struggle, we are bondmen, 

body and soul. 



[ 109 ] 



Selected Poems 



If you look for God, you must search him out in the fables 

of barbarous folk, 
If you hunt for Truth, you must swallow the myths 

Mohammed or Moses spoke; 
If you seek the Law, think not for yourself, for a priest a 

thousand years dead 
Will tell you the right, and will tell you the wrong, — so 

nothing more need be said! 

But you flee not, Johnny Rebel, from the spooks of a 

bygone day; 
You will not be made the lackey of a master turned to clay ; 
You believe in living people, — that the living should own 

the world ; 
You would leave the mummies quiet, in their catacombs 

snugly curled. 

You have stood for the rights of "the people," but "the 

people" are a sorry lot; 
They hoot you, abandon, betray you; when you warn them 

they heed you not; 
You love them, and yet you loathe them, gross creatures, 

half-gorilla, half -god, 
These crawlers, half formed from the star-beams, and half 

from the dunghill sod! 

You fight and you flay their master, and you bend and you 

break their chains; 
But the helots turn on you in frenzy, and they quarter you 

for your pains ; 
Barabbas they choose to be pardoned, and Pilate they 

place in the chair; 
They ridicule, curse and belie you, and they nail to the 

cross in air! 



[ HO ] 



Selected Toems 



You lead them to lands of promise, where the manna and 

quails are showered, 
But they whine for fleshpots of Egypt, the onions and leeks 

once devoured! 
You free them from devilish despots, — they return to the 

nabob and duke, 
As the sow returns to her wallow, as the dog returns to 

his puke. 

You've been hung by the thumbs, old fellow; they have 

made you a galley-slave, 
Bastinadoed, beheaded and burned you; they have rushed 

to spit on your grave ; 
And then in their maudlin repentance they have raised 

you a tablet of brass, 
And have dubbed you a prophet and hero, whom living 

they had jeered as an ass. 

But still, like a good old phoenix, you arise from your 

ashes once more, 
And the prince and the priest and the soldier you fight 

as you fought them of yore. 
I drink to your health, Johnny Rebel! There is worth in 

your honest eyes; 
You're the only knight-errant still roaming in a world 

enamored of lies. 



THE DRIED-UP STREAM 

This poem has reference to the old swimming hole on the 
Malone farm, where the boys of the neighborhood used to gather to 
go in swimming. 

O you who wander by this shallow bed, 
All dry, except one tiny, dwindling pool, 
Remember me, who knew you when a boy, 
Who bore you on her bosom in the past ! 

[ Hi ] 



Selected Poems 



How changed, how shrunken I am now, you say, 
Choked up with sand and overgrown with weeds ; 
O you who knew me in those far-off years, 
My glorious, gladsome youth will come no more! 

Ah, then the mosses velveted in green 
The gentle banks that sloped to pet my waves ; 
The brilliant cardinal flowers, white button-balls, 
And blue-eyed ageratums wreathed my ways. 
The red-bud and the dogwood hung above, 
To find a mirror for their bloomy boughs. 
Great elms threw twisted roots in monstrous coils 
To drink my dews, and gather giant strength; 
Huge oaks have blessed me as they raised on high 
Their chaplets of a myriad million leaves. 
Here mocking-birds have flitted down to drink, 
And thanked me in a rain of silvery songs, 
And here the redbird fluttered in delight 
To see reflections of his breast of fire. 

But most of all I loved the Summer days 

When bathers came to wanton in mine arms. 

Then gathered groups of slender fair-haired lads, 

With youths as splendid as the morning stars, 

And glorious young men, shapely, strong and tall, 

To leap and dive and swim the hours away. 

Disrobing on my tufted banks of fern, 

And parting leafy boughs to plunge below, 

Their marble feet, their graceful curving limbs 

Beamed white as moonlight through the sprays of green 

Revealing unabashed to all my world 

Such living charms no sculptor cuts from stone, 

But frankly naked like the happy gods 

Who tripped through woods of Doric hills at dawn, 

O, then I thrilled from trembling wave to wave, 

To drink their youth, their beauty and their joy. 

[ 112 ] 



Selected Poems 



Ah, all those comrades of the past have gone, 

And left me here to dwindle day by day. 

First came the woodsmen, and they felled my trees; 

Then blazing sunshine drank my dews away. 

Drought followed, so the thirsty cattle came 

And left a trickling stream half choked with mud. 

Sands gathered weeds and rushed on my way, 

Till only this poor tiny pool is left. 

The birds and blooms have all deserted me, 

With all the other friends I made in youth. 

But most of all I pine to see again 

The lovely boys who swam me long ago. 

Ah, they are boys no longer! Grizzled men, 

Grown gray with years, and stooped and warped with 

toil, 
Uncouth and rough from strife and grief and sin, 
They hobble on, and hobble, hobble still, 
When all the world is weary of the sight. 
You, too, have changed! the wrinkles on your brow, 
The restless eyes, the light hair flaked with frost, 
The lips that ever seem to breathe a sigh, 
All tell me that your fate and mine are one! 
Come, see your image in my mirror here! 
Do you recall your laughing boyhood face, 
And would you know it if you saw it there? 
Ah, old-time comrade, we have come to grief, 
The boy grown wrinkled, and the stream gone dry! 



SLEEP 

« 

In bygone years I sought to win renown, 
And longed for titles, riches, pomp and power; 
But Fate with hand relentless held me down, 
And gave a hovel for a castle-tower. 

[ 113 ] 



Selected Poems 



In later years, Love came to share my path, 
Yet bruised my bosom as he thrilled my heart ; 
His April morning died in clouds of wrath 
As I beheld his dove-like wings depart. 

I sought to drown my anguish deep in wine, 
But saw the serpent in the goblet's wreath ; 
I roved from Tropic palm to Arctic pine, 
Yet in my heart the Sword still found its sheath. 

I dreamed of heroes, of contending powers, 

Of daring deeds on far-off strands and seas, 

Yet feared those troubled isles of blood-red flowers, 

Where Glory plucked from bitter-fruited trees. 

So now I come to be your humble guest 
When selfish, vain ambitions find surcease, 
O gentle Sleep, whose other name is Rest, 
O golden Sleep, whose other name is Peace. 

With you my feet shall cease their wandering 
In fragrant fields besprent with dews of Morn, 
O magic wine without the serpent's sting, 
O fleckless pearl, O rose without a thorn! 

When youth is dead, one seeks your dulcet rest, 
And roams through gardens of undying bloom; 
Though loved no more, he sinks upon your breast, 
And One he loved rejoins him from the tomb. 

O soothing Sleep, the mother of all men, 
You bring back childhood with your lullabies ; 
The graybeard wreck becomes a babe again, 
And feels a parent's kisses close his eyes. 

Time, distance, chance, misfortune, end in thee; 
What means the desert waste, the ocean foam? 
With you the captive from his chain goes free, 
The broken-hearted exile wanders home. 

[ 114 3 



Selected Poems 



You stay all judgments; you blot out all sins; 
Your pardon comes at nightfall swift and sure ; 
The Best and Worse lie side by side like twins, 
All felons guiltless and all sinners pure. 

O balmy Sleep, you wipe out all disgrace, 
You ease all anger, end all thirst for blood ; 
You level every wordly rank and race, 
You right all wrongs, and make all evil good. 

THE SON OF ADAM 

They have sung the depths of the ages past 

of the beauties of sea and sky, 
Of the forests and fields in their robes of green, 

of the peaks of snow on high ; 
They have sung of Summer and sung of Spring, 

of the hush of the twilight hour, 
They have sung of the star, of the seaside shell, 

of leaf and of fruit and flower. 

And the bards have sung from forgotten times 

of the glorious gods in heaven ; 
They have called them good, they have called them kind, 

have thanked them for sins forgiven ; 
They have grovelled, and covered their heads with dust, 

in ashes and sackcloth lain, — 
They have begged for an answer ten trillion times, 

but have always begged in vain. 

They have sung of childhood's golden hair, 

of the patter of childish feet, 
Of the liquid lisp, of the dimpled cheek, 

of the love-words softly sweet ; 
They have sung of lovers with eager eyes, 

of the care-free boys and girls, 
They have harped and harped of the beauteous brows, 

and the wealth of their clustering curls. 

[ 115 ] 



Selected Poems 



They have sung the praises of woman, too, 

from Winter to Summer sun, — 
From the dawn to dusk, from the dusk to dawn, 

that worship is never done. 
They have sung of her beauty, her goodness, her grace, 

they have sung of her faith and truth, 
They have sung with the blind devotional hymns 

of a blind and headstrong youth. 

But they never sing in their puny strains 

of the grand and good in Man, 
Of his masculine soul, that has led the race 

from the day that it first began. 
He is called a worm which crawls in the dust, 

which never looks up, but down; 
He is theme for the penny-a-liner's screed, 

he is butt for the jest of the clown. 

And yet he has fathomed the ocean depths, 

he has measured the orbits of stars, 
He has tunnelled the Alps and the Andes peaks, 

rode the clouds in his railway cars ; 
He has conquered the desert and jungle and marsh, 

he has bridged the chasm and flood, 
And has sent his message on lightning wings 

through the air and the deep-sea mud. 

He has weighed the earth, the planets, the sun, 

he has mapped the face of the moon ; 
He has dived far down in the coral grove, 

he has sailed in the light balloon ; 
He has bulwarked the land from the tidal wave, 

exploded and shattered the shoal ; 
He has found the source of the Niger and Nile, — 

he will find the Northern Pole. 



[ 116 ] 



Selected Poems 



The great behemoth and mammoth he slew; 

he has slaughtered the spouting whale; 
He has trapped the fox and the beaver and wolf, 

he has followed the panther's trail ; 

He has captured the lion and tiger and bear, 
unmindful of hurt or harm, 

And condor and ostrich and eagle and hawk 

succumb to his stalwart arm. 

He has reared the castle and palace and tower, 

he has laid out the road and the street, 
He is planter of corn, of cotton and rice, 

he is reaper of barley and wheat. 
To the daughter of Eve is given one task, 

and that one task alone, 
But the Son of Adam has the whole world's weight 

on his sturdy shoulders thrown. 

But he seeks not alone for the Useful Device; 

he is lord of the works of the heart ; 
He is master of sculpture and painting and song, 

he is prince of the poet's art. 
He has strung the lyre of Homer and Keats, 

to Shakespeare given a stage, 
He has written the book of Dante and Poe, 

he is glowing in Byron's page. 

He has reared the marbles of Phildias, too, 

the Cathedral of Angelo ; 
He is Rembrandt's mind, he is Raphael's soul, 

he is heart of Correggio ; 
He is heard in the storms of Beethoven's bars, 

and in Mendelssohn's magic notes, 
With Mozart he sings in a heavenly choir 

of a thousand nightingale throats. 



[ 117 ] 



Selected Poems 



He has given us Newton and Darwin and Morse, 

Confucius and Plato and Paul, 
He has given Aurelius, Isaiah and Job, 

and Jesus, the gentlest of all; 
Though he fights for his rights and holds to them fast, 

and rebels at the chastening rod, 
He is author of all religions and creeds, 

creator of every God. 

They say he is selfish and heartless and cold, 

but he plows through the flood and the field, 
And for those he loved he has fought and bled, 

till Nature was forced to yield ; 
He sweats in the tunnel and furnace and mine, 

he is toiler of toil that is scorned, 
He digs for the gold and he dives for the pearls, 

that the Daughters of Eve be adorned. 

He plods through the swamps and the barrens and bogs, 

over steppes and Saharas accurst, 
And he calls aloud through the ocean storm, "Save the 

women and children first." 
He plunges to death at the engine brake, 

burns to death as the boat strikes shore ; 
He has mortgaged his head and his body and soul for 

the wife and the child she bore. 

And his very faults are the sure result 

of his courage, his might and skill; 
If he strikes and smites, if he takes by force, 

he does it for loved ones still. 
If he stifles with gas in depths of the pit, 

if he falls on the battle-line, 
He has sold his life for the ones at home 

with never a whimper or whine. 

[ 118 ] 



Selected Poems 



•ij 

There is beauty in woman, there is grace in the ch 

there is charm in the leaf and flower, 
But the Son of Adam is strong and sublime, 

he is Glory and Grandeur and Power; 
He is broad as the seas, he is kind as the sun, 

as useful as homely sod, 
He is next in rank to the Cherubim, 

he is wrought in the image of God. 



ANNIE LAURIE 

For you the lover spake his fondest vow, 
For you the poet breathed his sweetest sigh : 
To twine your myrtle wreath around her brow 
The fairest empress might rejoice to die. 

And yet your loyal lover sued in vain ; 

You proved unfaithful to your "promise true," 

And never did he kiss your face again 

On green Maxwelton banks at fall of dew. 

O lass, your lad was bonnie, brave and grand, 
If you but willed, had "laid him down and died"; 
None other had the right to claim your hand, — 
How could you live to be another's bride? 

The lyric of your love is never done, 
But speeds forever, on from soul to soul; 
The traveler hums it in the Afric sun, 
And sings it as he seeks the Northern Pole. 

Yet through the solemn nights and silvery noons 
Your fickle heart hears fond reproaches fall ; 
Your story to her babe the mother croons, 
The schoolboy's whistle tells the tale to all. 

C 119 ] 



Selected Poems 



As long as Scotland's mountains pierce the skies, 
And green Maxwelton banks are gemmed with dew, 
Your broken vows shall cause the lover's sighs, 
And maids shall weep to hear you proved untrue. 

Far from your gentle lover's side to wend, 
Your heart must miss him as you fare alone. 
The ghost of Love shall haunt you to the end, 
O loveliest ingrate that the world has known ! 



THE SONG OF THE FROGS 

When the soft south wind is blowing, and the melted 

streams are flowing, 
It is then I hear a croaking in the marsh; 
By and by the notes grow stronger, and the little strain 

grows longer, 
Though the music still is just a little harsh. 
Oh, you little hump-backed hero, you defy the Winter Nero, 
And a thrilling message of delight you bring; 
O, you quaint amphibious satyr, in your ever welcome 

clatter 
You have brought the first glad tidings of the Spring. 

Soon your brethren join your singing, till the tangled 
swamps are ringing, 

And my heart is bounding blithely at your call. 

Soon the swaying reeds and rushes shall be thrilled by 
notes of thrushes; 

But your bagpipe made the summons first of all. 

Soon shall come the swift song-sparrows, like a flight of 
feathered arrows, 

And the mocking-bird and redbird and the wren ; 

Then shall come the rose and lily, hyacinth, crocus, daf- 
fodilly, 

And the old, old world shall then be young again. 

[ 120 ] 



Selected Toems 



Soon yon bleak and barren highlands, wreathed in green, 

shall kiss the skylands; 
Soon their old Arcadian sports begin once more. 
In the breast of every virgin love shall bud and love shall 

burgeon, 
And the youth shall flush and quiver o'er and o'er. 
Under beams of mild-eyed Venus, friendly myrtle bought 

shall screen us; 
We shall tell the old, old story at her fane; 
There young lovers shall be treading, there'll be wooing, 

there'll be wedding, 
With the old, old painful bliss and blissful pain. 

We shall hear the hosts of Bacchus through the verdant 

woodlands track us, 
Old Silenus on his donkey in the rear; 
We shall hear their shouting shepherds, we shall see their 

gliding leopards, 
We shall hear their loud and boisterous hymns of cheer. 
We shall see gold-haired Apollo in a vine-clad, ferny hollow 
Come with all the muses back to haunts of men. 
For the frogs say Winter's over, they predict the bloom of 

clover, 
And they say the world shall soon be young again. 



EDGAR ALLEN POE 

1809-1909 

Far through the hazes of a hundred years 
We see him, wrapped in solitude and gloom. 
Enchanted gardens, haunts of pallid bloom, 
Amid the desert shadowland of Tears, 
Girt by the dark, wild wilderness of Fears, 
Glow pale as moongleams on a hoary tomb : 
There roamed he, sealed to melancholy doom, 
Fate whispering "Never, never!" in his ears. 

[ 121 ] 



Selected Poems 



Death bade the Raven of his soul depart, 
With all the aching and unrest of yore ; 
The stainless marble fane he reared to Art 
Shall be his mausoleum evermore ; 
And there the anguish of his eager heart, 
Shall find surcease in love of lost Lenore ! 

WHENCE AND WHITHER 

O River, from where dost thou come? 

By what peaks of snow, 

Pink orchards a-blow, 

By what lakes and lawns, 

Green forests of fawns, 

By what castles and cots do thy rivulets hum? 

O tell unto me, 

What far distant sea 

You hasten to join through dusks and through dawns? 

O ship say from where dost thou hail? 

From what fronded palms, 

From what tropic calms, 

With gums and with spice 

From what far paradise, 

From what blissful isles hast thou trimmed thy sails? 

To where will thine oars 

Bear thy fragrant stores, 

Thy honey, thy fruit, and thy silken bales? 

O babe with thy prattle so sweet, 

What seraphs have blessed you, 

What cherubs caressed you? 

What heavenly singers 

Have fondled your fingers 

What lilies of Eden have fondled your feet? 

And where will you go 

From this world of woe 

By what strands where billows of Eternity beat? 

[ 122 ] 



Selected Poems 



O barque with thy mystical lore, 

From what far-off lands, 

From what shining strands, 

From what stars have you brought 

The wisdom you taught 

To Enlighten the darkness of this earthly shore? 

For what home dost thou yearn 

At last to return 

When the day of thy detention is oe'r? 



FROM LOW BEGINNINGS 

No thing on earth can be contemptible in Wisdom's eyes. 
This brown mud-spattered bulb a splendid lily may arise, 
This freckled egg may be a peacock or a bird of paradise, 
This peasant boy a Shakespeare or a Caesar in disguise. 



THE CONQUEST OF CHINA 

"Be Christians in the cheerful endurance of sufferings. May 
honor and glory follow your army and flags. * * * No quarter is to 
be given, prisoners are not to be taken. * * * Preserve your military 
discipline, and may God's blessings be with you. The prayers of the 
people and my best wishes accompany you. Open a way for 
civilization once for all. 

Emperor William. 

None now but heathens heed the voice of Christ ; 
The Poor In Spirit all have learned to shoot ; 
The Sinner, not the Saint, is sacrificed ; 
The Meek and Lowly have their turn to loot. 

We thrust the Gospel in a sabre stroke, 
We search the pockets of our erring brother ; 
We ease him of his coat, — he gives his cloak; 
We smite his right cheek, — and he turns the other. 

[ 123 ] 



Selected Poems 



We long to lead this Gentile to the fold, — 
We kindly kick him if he dares resist. 
We love our neighbor, — and we love his gold ; 
Our hand of fellowship is now a fist. 

We come to give the pagan Church and School, 
His burning home shall light his barbarous gloom ; 
The Gatling Gun shall preach the Golden Rule, 
And Joyful Tidings in the Bombshell boom. 

No quarter! Let him kick and squirm alone! 
None but the Righteous have the nerves to feel. 
The poor blind heathen bows to Wood and Stone,— 
We'll make him bow to Sulphur and to Steel. 

The Christian-Up-To-Date, with prayer for pelf, 
Has made his heel tramp human hearts in mud, 
Made him burn incense at the Shrine of Self, 
And belt the whole world in a zone of blood. 

And so this pious Pharisee hath set 

The snares once woven by bloodthirsty Rome, 

And come with brandy, bible, bayonet, 

To rob the naked native of his home. 

But China flourished in Creation's gloam, 
Before the gods of Syria were adored, 
Ere Abraham and Sarah left their home 
To pitch their tents in deserts unexplored. 

She mapped the earth, she named the stars above 
When Gaul and Teuton burrowed with the Mole ; 
She taught forgiveness, preached the law of love 
Before the Briton thought he had a soul. 

In that far time, no ship sailed Tyrian Seas, 
No Roman banner in the breeze unfurled ; 
The Southern Cross shone on the Hebrides, 
Another pole-star glimmered on the world. 

[ 124 ] 



Selected Toems 



She saw old Thebes and Tadmor pass away, 
She saw the god-built Trojan towers fall. 
She saw her foeman flourish, — then decay; 
She knelt to conquerers, — yet outlived them all. 

The Kings may crush her, but they cannot slay; 
She shall survive their puny petty spite; 
For they are but the upstarts of to-day, 
Toadstools and mushrooms sprouted yesternight. 

IN PRAISE OF RIGHTEOUS WAR 

I am coming not in a weakling's verse, with a milk-sop's 

feeble whine, 

With uplifted hand and with pious drawl, aghast at the 

battle-line ; 
But I come to praise the fight that is fought for the sake of 

Truth and Right, 

The fight that is fought for God and for Home, that will 

mate the Right with Might. 

Yes, patience is good, and humility, too, and so is the pipe 

of peace; 
But the time will come when forbearence ends, and your 

sugary smiles must cease; 
Then either your hand must grip at your gun, and brighten 

the sword from its rust, 
Or your slavish neck must bend to the yoke, and your 

mouth must chew the dust. 

You must fight for the fire that toasts your feet, for the 

roof that shelters your head, 
For the herd that yields you its milk or meat, for the field 

that gives you bread; 
You must fight for bed, you must fight for board, for the 

woman you love the best, 
And O, you must fight with a ten-fold will for the baby at 

her breast. 

[ 125 ] 



Selected Toems 



When a mad-dog comes down your village street, with the 

green foam in his jaws, 
Do you greet him with bibles and hymn-books, and lovingly 

bid him pause? 
When a rattlesnake rises amidst your path, alert with his 

fiery sting, 
Do you pet him, and pat him, and wish him well, and a 

song of welcome sing? 

When a big-armed bully among the Powers says the folk 

of a little land 
Must sprawl in the dirt, and confess to a crime that never 

besmirched their land, 
Do you blame that people that rises up, a pigmy ready to 

fight, 
A David, aroused, with only a sling, defying Goliath's 

might? 

When a vain war-lord with a swollen head, and inflamed 

with a brute desire, 
Through a little state that was lapped in peace, comes 

tramping with blood and fire, 
Despoiling the fields and looting the towns, — do you blame 

that blameless state, 
For rousing in godlike righteous wrath, and hitting with 

righteous hate? 

And war is the great Arouser; it silences whimpering 

tongues ; 
It toughens the muscles, it hardens the fist, and brings 

fresh air to the lungs; 
Though it comes with torch and it strikes with steel, and 

shortens life's petty span, 
That life it exalts to heroic heights, so a man is twice a man. 



[ 126 ] 



Selected Toems 



Yes, patience is good, and so is peace; but he is not 

worthy of good 
Who will not rush forth when the spoiler comes, to defend 

it with his blood : 
When that Spoiler comes with his bandit crew, to shatter 

with shot and shell, 
Let the good man rise, with a fervent prayer, and give him 

hell for hell! 

THE HAUNTED HOUSE 

Thou art a haunted house, my heart, 
Where joys have lived and died, 
And stealing back to olden scenes, 
Like pallid spectres glide. 

There haggard wraiths of ancient griefs 
Pace the old ivied walls, 
And ghostly triumphs and defeats 
Stalk through the ruined halls. 

At twilight, round the lonesome hearths 
Gather dead hopes and fears, 
And there Repentance and Regret 
Sit bathed in phantom tears. 

Old hates are there ; and sweet lost loves, 
After youth's days depart, 
Wander with white unresting feet 
That haunted house, my heart! 

EPITAPH FOR A FRIEND 

Stranger! A Man of men sleeps here in dust: 
Life he made lovelier in the days of yore : 
Now Death he makes less dreadful, since we trust 
That Death will lead us to his side once more. 

[ 127 ] 



Selected Toems 



TO A MOCKING-BIRD 

Singing in October 

Dost thou not know, sweet bird, that Spring hath fled, 
Taking the youth and joyance of the year? 
That Summer's gladsome hours of gold have sped, 
Leaving the fields and wildwoods sad and sere? 

Above, through melancholy skies of grey, 
The red leaves flutter on the chilly breeze, 
And birds of passage, calling, wing their way 
From Norland shores to strands by tropic seas. 

Yet still thou singest ; and thy presence bright 
Cheers the lone bowers beneath a faded sun 
Like the sweet spirit of a lost delight 
Haunting old scenes when life's best days are done. 

O teach me, noble songster, how to wend 
My life's autumnal pathway, strong of heart 
When youth and youthful fervor have their end, 
And all the old ambitious dreams depart. 

Teach me to sing when dim October skies 

Are flecked with dead leaves on the north wind whirled, 

When the rose, shattered, by the pathway lies, 

And Sorrow, like a shadow, walks the world. 

Teach me to sing for sake of song alone 
As I go unapplauded or unheard, 
When laurels that I longed to call mine own 
Encircle not my brow, celestial bird ! 

C 128 ] 



Selected Poems 



MOTHER AND CHILD 

I pass the two upon this crowded street, 

And mark their strong resemblence at a glance, — 

One like a living Poem, freshly sweet, 

One like the spectre of some slain Romance. 

How strange it is, each seeming like the other, 
Yet differing as the dawn from chastening dusk! 
The happy, heedless child, the care-worn mother, 
The pink-white blossom and the faded husk! 

Yet in that lovely child's cerulean eyes 
I see the mother's girlhood ere its wane ; 
I see the springtime of purpureal skies 
Which never in her world shall be again. 

The golden tresses on that pearly brow 
Were filched from sunshine of forgotten years, 
The bloom upon that face plucked from a bough 
In long-lost isles beyond a sea of tears. 

Pale, care-worn mother with the beauteous child, 
In those old days thou, too, wert wondrous fair, — 
Thy step as joyous and thy heart as wild 
As that of one who trips beside thee there. 

Relentless years have tamed thee to thy fate, 
And made thee patient with thy prosy life ; 
Long hast thou ceased to batter at The Gate, 
And wage with powers of heaven unequal strife ! 

Men have forgotten thou wert once a swan 
That soared above the snow-peaks, white like thee; 
That close-clipped wing no more shall cleave the dawn, 
With rose-wreathed clouds to bear thee company! 

[ 129 ] 



Selected Poems 



But not afar, pale mother, need we seek, 
The blossoms that were rifled from thy bower ; 
Thine own heart's blood incarnadined that cheek, 
And made those child-lips seem a scarlet flower. 

For, like some glowing rose in years long past 
Twined by a lover in his loved-one's tress, 
Which, dying, bound the man and maiden fast, — 
Thy brilliance paled, another's life to bless. 

And blest of women art thou in thy doom, 
O thou unselfish one, O true Life Giver, 
Who fadest that another's cheek may bloom, 
Whose beauty dies, yet dies to live forever! 



THE EARTHQUAKE 

Judge Malone, of Memphis, Term., author of the remarkable 
American epic poem, "Hernando de Soto" (just published by G. P. 
Putnam's Sons, New York), from which the following impressive and 
peculiarly timely passage is extracted, has put forth several earlier 
volumes of lyrics, including the famous lines on "Opportunity." 
Alfred Austin, the English Laureate, writes of this American con- 
temporary's work: "I find in it deference to the best traditions of 
English poetry, and a rare power of continuous yet never tiresome 
narrative." 

Bells toll in steeples where no human hand 

Puts forth to ring them ; great cathedral walls 

Fall crashing to the ground, and overwhelm 

Under their ruins frantic multitudes 

Whose shrieks they smother into silence. Birds 

Are stifled by the ashes and the fumes, 

And fall like dead leaves headlong from the skies. 

Wild beasts forsake their highland fastnesses 

In rocky dens and caverns, or their lairs 

Amidst the forest's deep untrodden glooms, 

[ 130 ] 



Selected Poems 



Trembling with terror, and into homes of men 

Creep tamed and whining. Everlasting hills 

Seem sick men writhing in convulsive spasm ; 

The mountains rock and quiver ; ocean waves 

Dash wildly on the promontory's brow. 

Keen lightnings round the lofty craters glitter; 

The sun turns red, grows murky, disappears. 

With wrench on wrench and frightful quake on quake 

The heavens and the earth seem gulfed together. 

Stupendous chasm yawns ; in awful pangs 

The hoarse-voiced subterranean thunder roars ; 

Explosion on explosion rends the peaks 

With great concussions that the mariner 

Feels on his bark an hundred leagues at sea. 

Amidst the din of houses tumbling down, 

The sickening shocks, the suffocating dust, 

And the deep darkness veiling earth and heaven, 

Women and men, bewildered, agonized, 

And lifting feeble rushlights in their hands, 

Rush to and fro, crying the names of friends 

Now lost or dead. But through that sulphurous pall 

Their tapers glimmer but a cubit's length, 

And none can find his comrade. On their heads 

They scatter dust, or on their shoulders bear 

The weight of heavy crosses for their sins. 

And quivering through that midnight of despair, 

One hears the deep-toned chanting of the priest, 

While frenzied mortals, barefoot, grimed with soot, 

In rags and tatters, with disheveled hair, 

With white lips, and with wild distended eyes, 

Delirious in their terror, supplicate, 

And shriek to God to save them from their doom. 



C 131 ] 



Selected Toems 



THE HEART'S DESIRE 

From Hernando De Soto 

Give me, Fate, some one to love 

And one to love me in return ; 
To win this blessing Saints above 

For old-time earthly haunts might yearn. 

Oh, for the touch of gentle hands, 
The spell of accents sweet and low! 

One cannot crush the heart's demands; 
Nature will not be cheated so ! 

Man's bosom ever seeks its mate; 

No soul that lives can live alone 
Unloved, the king in kingliest state 

But banquets on a crust and bone. 

The dream, I dream may be in vain, 

My idol be with earth alloyed, 
But shield me from this deadening pain 

Of seeing faith and trust destroyed ! 

The disenchantments learned from truth 
Fall blotting life's unsullied page; 

Better sweet follies born of youth 
Than bitter wisdom bought of age ! 

Reft of its plumage sinks the dove, 
Reft of its dewdrops droops the fern ; 

Give me, O Fate, some one to love, 
And one to love me in return. 



[ 132 ] 



Selected "Poems 



SOLACE 

From Hernando De Soto 

When I am bowed with grief, let me not say, 

"Lord, I am cheered in mine adversity 

To know that countless thousands in this world 

To-day are bowed with burdens heavier 

Than those allotted unto me." Let not 

The selfish thought that hearts of others ache 

With pangs more poignant than mine own, be made 

A balm to soothe me to contentedness. 

No, rather let me say, "Though I am thrall 

To sorrow, it is comfort unto me, 

To know that countless others at this hour 

Are glad of heart. I thank Thee that my gloom 

Eclipses not the noontide of their joy." 

O, brother, though my heart be desolate, 

Lonely and dreary, let my solace be 

To know that in thy house is warmth and love, 

Dancing and feasting, and the sound of mirth : 

Yea, brother, let my worthier comfort be 

To know thy path is bright though mine is dark. 



TO AN ENEMY 
From Hernando De Soto 

Although I love my friend, still let me yield 

This tribute to thy worth, mine enemy! 

Unjust thou art, perchance, no doubt unkind, 

Yet much I owe to thee, stern monitor! 

Faults though thou hast, due honor shall be thine. 

Close, keen-eyed critic, oft thy scrutiny 

Hath made me blush defenseless, and in shame 

Turn from my darling idols. Thou hast set 

[ 133 ] 



Selected Toetns 



Full oft in paths of righteousness my feet, 

That else had wandered in forbidden ways, 

Lovely yet treacherous, and thy censure harsh 

Hath oft rebuked my days of dalliance 

In pleasant fields where pitfalls hid in flowers 

Awaited me with secret perils. Yea, 

Thy sneer hath been a sword to prod me on 

To duty; it hath been a goading spur 

To make me win a race I counted lost. 

Thy jeer hath oft aroused me till I swore 

To reach success despite thy prophesies 

Of my defeat ; thy challenge, like a blast 

Of trumpets when the battle hangs in doubt, 

Hath nerved my hand to snatch the victor's wreath 

That else had never graced my brows. Again, 

Amidst my paeans sung by parasites, 

Thy frown from mien austere remindeth me 

That I am merely mortal, child of dust, 

Soon summoned unto strict account. Stern friend, 

Not thine to soothe with silken flatteries, 

Nor gloze with unctuous phrases ; it is thine 

To do much more — to save me from myself! 



THE RELIGION OF BROTHERHOOD 

From Hernando De Soto 

There is a great day that is yet to corne, 
A morn more glorious than all morns before. 
Far, far away I see that marvelous time, 
Though we shall never live to greet it here. 
In that blest day all nations shall be one, 
And one resplendent banner wave for all, 
Frontiers and boundaries then shall be no more, 
And Fatherland shall mean the Whole Wide World. 

C 134 ] 



Selected Toems 



To-day we count that man an enemy 
Because he dwells beyond a fancied line ; 
We only call him friend whose span of life 
Is rounded by the colors of a map. 
We slay the man who never did us harm 
Because his monarch and our own are foes ; 
We rob the maiden of her heart's own boy 
For fancied wrongs from dusty archives dug; 
We part the widow from her only son 
To bring some mounted soldier to renown. 
Our hates are fixed by planes of latitude, 
And longitude has governed laws of love. 

Because the heathen in his blindness bows 
To gaping idols hewn from wood and stone 
We wade the green scum of tropic swamps, 
We drink the fevers of its fetid air, 
We rouse the tiger and the hooded snake, 
To force the naked savage from his gods, 
With crash of bomb and thrust of bayonet, 
And all for what? Because his simple faith 
Was handed from his fathers down to him, 
While we accept the faith our fathers taught 
Yet blind ourselves we seek to lead the blind, 
While still the Great Unknown is hid from all. 

O brothers, let the Lapland peasant dream 
His snow clad forest is a paradise ; 
Still let the Congo native loudly boast 
His^snaky jungle is the realm for kings; 
Still let the huddled Chinese millions claim 
Their yellow rivers lave celestial fields. 
Let us remember there are other lands 
Beyond the hilltops of our boyhood home; 
Let us remember other men have hearts, 
Although they march beneath another flag, 

[ 135 ] 



Selected Poems 



O let us not forget that pious souls 
Will bow to-night to other gods than ours 
In awe, in reverence, and in living trust, 
Which shame us in the boldness of our sins. 

Who knows that God will spurn the heathen's prayer 
Because he calls Him by another name? 
What matter, when that idol, wood or stone 
Is merely symbol of the Great Unknown? 
Men seek Him by a thousand different names, 
Yet all those names are titles of The Lord. 

That swarthy savage in the trackless woods 
Who leads the famished hunter to his hut, 
And shares his little store of food and drink, 
Is brother unto me, is Son of God. 
That Hindoo mother, who, when famine comes, 
Dies that her child might eat the crust and live, 
Is sister of the meek and lowly Christ 
Although her ears have never known His name, 
Although in death she bows to wood and stone. 

O brother of that far-off glorious time 

When only Love is Force, when Right is Might, 

O brother of that undiscovered day 

Which sees the Lion playing with the Lamb, 

Remember us your brethren of the Past, 

Who groped in darkness and in doubt and fear ! 

Our rude ancestors rose above the brute, 

And stumbled slowly up to higher things, 

To-day we struggle for a better life, 

Although your glory we shall never share ; 

Remember how we strove, and fought, and bled, 

While still the old, old Adam clutched below, 

And sought to stay us as we climbed the height, 

All this remember in your glorious age, 

And breathe one word of kindness for us here, 

Who prophesied and hailed you from afar! 

[ 136 ] 



Selected Poems 



FRANK FAWCETT McKERNAN 

Died March 6, 1902. 

In a great city, where my friends were few, 
Where myriads struggled in life's selfish race — 

Amid those days of darkness first I knew 
The perfect poem of your fine young face. 

When shrouded Sorrow sat within my heart, 
You came to meet me in the stranger's land ; 

Though all forsaken, thou didst take my part, 
And though deserted, thou didst hold my hand. 

Long have I wished to see your face again, 
But you have left me in the gathering gloam; 

Death must have loved you, for he eased your pain, 
God must have loved you, for he called you home. 

Ah, you will make new friends where you have gone — 
Friends free from faults you knew in me of yore, 

And they may bid you to forget the one 

Whose shadowed life is linked with yours no more, 

But, O, if new companions take your hand, 
If splendid seraphs greet you there on high, 

Forget me not in this far-distant land — 
For none will love you half as well as I. 

And though your heart may never miss its mate 

Among the lilies there in Paradise, 
Remember old times, when we fought with Fate, 

And wandered homeless under scowling skies. 

Though still I wander through this desert dearth, 

Where hopes prove false, where tears are never dried — 

Remember still your old friend here on earth, 

Whose heart and soul were darkened when you died. 

[ 137 ] 



Selected Toems 



WILL HUBBARD KERNAN 

Thou art the poet of the realms of Night, 
Of anguish, desolation, and despair. 
Like stern-browed Orcus leaping from his lair, 
While Enna's blossoms withered in their fright, 
Thou treadest through the earth with blast and blight, 
The sweet muse from her gardens glad to tear, 
That she thy mournful kingdom's gloom may share, 
A bride enrobed in funeral garb of white. 

She roams our fields when Spring is rich and green, 
And when the golden Summer crowns the years ; 
But when the Autumn's haggard face is seen, 
And icy Winter's stormy brow uprears, 
Returns to be Death's sad and solemn queen, 
With thee, weird king of terrors and of tears. 



ANNIE COOK 
Died September 11, 1878 

Your life, in youth, was written all in wine, 
You gathered poppies of the poisoned breath. 

Sin was so beautiful she seemed divine, 
Thou daughter of the Devil and of Death. 

But soon you saw her loveliness depart, 
You saw her splendor and her glory dead, 

And you were left with bruised and bleeding heart, 
When all the comrades of your youth had fled. 

Yes, all had fled, sweet youths of long ago; 

Where now their fruity lips, their clustering curls, 
Their May-morn eyes, their dimpled cheeks aglow, 

The peach-bloom boys, the morning-glory girls! 

[ 138 ] 



Selected Toems 



Yes, all had left you to your bitter fate, 
To walk the highways of the wicked town, 

To hear your heart cry out "Too late, too late! 
Amid the darkness when the sun went down. 



11 



The City's noises seemed to mock your pain ; 

The iron engine like Prometheus groaned, 
Like drowning Sappho sobbed the midnight rain, 

And like King Lear the winds of winter moaned. 

Then fell the plague on men with poisoned breath, 
And weakling saints were scattered far in flight. 

But you were firm, you would not flee from death; 
You dressed the dead, you nursed the sick at night. 

Deserted and abandoned by them all, 

When even God seemed frowning from the skies, 

You would not shirk the sufferer's piteous call, 
But faced the Terror with unflinching eyes. 

Where death was strongest, thou wert sure to be; 

Where hope was weakest, thou wert sure to come. 
Then He who knew thy sorrows pitied thee ; 

Thy kind eyes closed, thy faithful hands grew numb. 

What Priest, what Sage, can solve life's mysteries? 

We know not whether hope died in thy pall, 
If thou dost tread to-day in Paradise, 

Or whether in thy grave was end of all. 

Yet I would lay a lily on thy tomb, 

O thou who in the steps of Jesus trod, 
O heroine who defied the voice of doom, 

O daughter of the true and only God! 



[ 139 ] 



Selected Toems 



PAST AND PRESENT 

You said you loved me, when my heart was gay, 
When Fortune was a guest within my door; 

But will you love me in this gloaming gray, 
When others, whom I cherished, love no more? 

Who needs a friend when Fortune is his friend? 

Who needs a guide through sunlit fields a-bloom? 
But when disaster gathers in the end, 

Where is the hand to lead me through the gloom? 

Love, how I need you! As the Summer grain 

Needs benediction of God's golden light, 
As fading foliage needs the rippling rain, 

As wan moonflowers need the soothing night. 

I ask you, "Do you love me?" Not as then, 

When Life was laughing, wreathed with roses red, 

But now, when darkness drapes the world of men, 
And all the splendors of my youth have sped. 

Then, like a brilliant cactus blazed the noon, 
And twilight flitted like a brown-eyed fawn, 

Then, like a white swan sailed the May-night moon, 
And like a purple poppy flamed the dawn. 

Young April, in her girlish frock of green, 

Blonde August, with her glory-gleaming eyes, 

Brunette October, like an Arab queen, 

And gray December, with his gloomy skies, — 

These with their flowers and snowflakes strewed the ground 
In jest and joyance through the years of yore; 

Love's lilies blossomed all the year around, 
His birds went sweetly singing evermore. 

[ 140 ] 



Selected Toems 



But like Aladdin when he lost his lamp, 

I saw my childhood's palace pass away; 
So then, forsaken, I was forced to tramp 

All weary, worn and footsore, day by day. 

Yet as I grope through ebon glooms of night 

And know a jasmine by its rich perfume, 
So, sweet, I know you in this fading light, 

A princess, come to share a peasant's doom! 

And like a crystal palace in the heart 

Which keeps through Winter warmth of Summer noons, 
Love's tropic splendors never shall depart, 

Still glowing through their everlasting Junes. 

Then come to me, O precious, as of old, 

Bring back the brilliance of the perished years, 

Bring back the glory of my age of gold, 
And end my exile in the realm of tears. 

Then we shall lose the false for real bliss ; 

True love turns not when fickle youth forsakes ; 
A fairy prince, beneath his ardent kiss, 

The Sleeping Beauty of the soul awakes. 



SOLITUDE 

He who ascends the cloud-encircled peak 

And gropes along through mist when twilight comes, 

When all the rocks are veiled in gloomy gray, 

Has trembled in a fearful Solitude. 

He who has trod the trackless wilderness 

Where giant trees turn noontide into night, 

Where monstrous vines are twisting coil on coil, 

Where unknown birds chirp through the loneliness, 

And unknown beasts are crying from afar, — 

[ 141 ] 



Selected Toems 



Has felt an awful silence in his soul. 

He who, shipwrecked, a thousand miles from land, 

Drifts on and on, and never sights a sail, 

With but a stormy petrel flitting by, 

Has longed to clasp a helping hand again. 

He who has wandered through a foreign land, 

And trod a giant city's crowded streets, 

And knows no one amid the myriad throngs, 

And only hears an unfamiliar tongue, — 

He, too, has known the depths of loneliness. 

He who imprisoned in a dungeon cell, 

Sees no one, but beholds a stealthy hand 

Slip through the iron grating day by day, 

And leave a cup of water, crust or bone, 

And cowers in that dungeon thirty years, 

Yet never knows his captor or his crime, — 

He, too, has craved a comrade's sympathy. 

But, still, my soul, your awful solitude 
Is more than his who climbs the mountain peak, 
Than his who treads the trackless wilderness, 
Than that of him adrift upon a spar, 
Than that of him lost in a foreign town. 
More lonely than the prisoner in his cell 
Are you, O soul, whom no man ever knows. 
You strive to speak, but none will understand, 
You call for help, but no one ever comes. 
No friend can ever share your confidence, 
No spouse the secret chamber of your mind! 
Wise men may read the ruined monuments 
Which tell the stories of forgotten kings, 
May read the parchment or the papyrus, 
And learn the legends of forgotten years, 
But none may translate from the secret book 
Locked in the dungeon seen by you alone. 



[ 142 ] 



Selected Poems 



Soul, you sail strange oceans like a ship 
Steered by a pilot whom you never see, 
Ruled by a captian you have never known, 
Bound from a land you cannot recollect, 
And destined for a harbor never told. 
Come, tell me, are you seeking for a strand 
Where tufted palms wave under blissful skies? 
Or, are you only speeding on your way 

To wreck your cargo on a desert shore? 

Or, are you only hastening after all 

To sink forever in the ocean waves? 

Sometimes I see another ship afar, 

And clap my hands and cry, "A sail! A sail!" 

1 wave a signal, never understood, 

And then the bark fades swiftly from my sight. 

O soul, amid your awful solitude 

You sail without a compass or a chart. 

No consort cleaves the ocean by your side, 

You know not whence you came, nor where you go. 



THE QUEEN OF THE VALENTINES 



I 

"Little bird, little bird, coming back from the South, 
Where spring-time's youth never dies, 

With a melody sweet in your passionate mouth 
To gladden our gloomy skies ; 

"Little bird, little bird, in the days long ago, 

A prince you lived and you died, 
And you flit like a leaf through the sun and the snow, 

Over earth and ocean wide. 

[ 143 ] 



Selected Poems 



"You have seen in the days that forever have fled 

Full many a fair, fair face, 
And to-day you behold merry maidens that tread 

With gladsomest fawn-like grace ; 

"Will you say, little bird, if you've seen in your flight 

A maiden as fair as mine ; 
With a smile half as sweet, with a step half as light, 

Or eyes, like her own, divine?" 



II 

"Never, O never, in sunshine or shadow, 
Never, O never, on mountain or meadow, 
Never, O never, in legends of glory, 
Never, O never, in song or in story, 

"On the glad, green earth or the ocean wide, 
Has a maiden lived or a maiden died, 
In the huts below or the halls above, 
As sweet as the sweet, sweet maid you love. 

"There were proud, proud queens in the days of old, 
With their white, white brows and their locks of gold, 
So stately and tall, so witchingly sweet, 
That the heroes died at their lovely feet ; 

"There were maids beloved by the bards of yore, 
Whose beauty is treasured for evermore 
In the songs still sung as the bards sang then, 
And ever shall be by the sons of men ; 

"Though the heart regrets, and the memory lingers 
On the vanished queens and sweethearts of singers, 
O lover, O lover, the maiden thou greetest 
Is fairest of all, and brightest and sweetest." 

r 144 ] 



Selected Poems 



III 

All things that are fair at night and at noon 

Are blent in the face of my sweet, 
From the stately orb of the full white moon 

To the bluebell low at her feet; 

From the diamond crown of the evening star 

To the dew on the pansy's plume, 
From the blush in cheeks of the dawn afar 

To the blush on the peach tree's bloom 

Fairer than them all in the ages fled, 
In the banished or vanished scenes, 

Than roses living or the lilies dead, 

Sweetest of sweethearts, queen of queens! 

FOR MILDRED 

O lovely maiden of the peach-bloom face, 
So artless in your morning mirthfulness, 

O maiden tripping in unstudied grace, 
This weary world to beautify and bless ; 

You bring strange memories to my callous heart, 
Forgotten fancies from forsaken years, 

Old joys, that long ago I saw depart 
Amid the hazes of regretful tears. 

You bring to mind those dear departed Springs, 
Those Summers that vanished evermore, 

A halcyon youth, whose head and feet had wings 
In lost rose-gardens of the years of yore. 

You bring to mind the days of dead romance, 
When my young heart was like a dewy flower, 

When song and story centered in a glance, 
And pain was but a passing April shower. 

[ 145 ] 



Selected Toetns 



How all is changed ! The fairy stories close, 
The fields are faded, dull the skies above; 

The life that once was poetry, is prose ; 

None seek me now to bring me gifts of love. 

I do not wonder as I gaze at thee, 

How Helen thrilled the nations far and wide, 
How Cleopatra weaved her witchery, 

Till heroes for her glory bled and died. 

For such as you were leveled walls of Troy, 
And Actium's ships were wrapped in sheeted flame, 

With fire and sword were ravaged realms of joy, 
Leaving great cities but a storied name. 

So then, remember that thy subtle power 

Is like a magic sceptre in thy hands, 
To rear to God upon a rock a tower, 

Or scatter hopes like houses built on sands. 

So, when the One of All shall come to woo, 
Remember thou canst make him or canst mar, 

His love in ashes and in dust to strew, 
Or fix his aspirations on a star. 

Within thy heart, ere youth has flitted by, 
Let Love, the Rose, its blossoms never cease, 

Beneath it place the Violet, Modesty, 
And high above them all the Lily, Peace. 

Amid the blessings that to thee are given, 

Let Self upon thy shrine be sacrificed, 
Becoming then the blessed bride of Heaven, 

Daughter of God, and sister unto Christ. 



[ 146 ] 



Selected Toems 



FIRESIDE FANCIES 

Here, hand in hand, we sit to-night, 
Flushed in the logwood's ruddy light, 
While red coals glow and blue flames leap 
And hot sap sings and crickets cheep. 
Outside we hear the wild winds call 
And down the pane see snowflakes fall, 
While Winter, like a hungry hound, 
Hunts over hills with bay and bound. 

A palace in the brilliant fires 
Rears garnet walls and golden spires, 
And many a labarynthine maze 
Bedecked with opal hearts ablaze. 
The smoke, an azure banner, curls 
O'er halls of rubies and of pearls; 
Blue sapphire turrets flame and flare, 
And jasper columns glow and glare. 

Here, hand in hand, my love and I 

List to the wild winds whistling by; 

We hear the sap sing, crickets cheep, 

And see the lithe blue blazes leap. 

And then, as chill winds whistle on, 

We talk of youthful days long gone; 

Of love that laughed through summer days 

Then left us treading thorny ways. 

To-night, our hearts, like brands aglow, 
Are burning in a world of snow; 
For in your love is summer peace 
And summer joys that never cease. 
I kiss you, take your hand in mine, 
And feel my sordid soul divine. 
Let worldly wealth and glory be, 
But leave you, precious, still with me! 

[ 147 ] 



Selected Poems 



So here we sit, still hand in hand, 

And tread a wonderous fairy-land — 

The kingdom of a lover's dreams, 

With bloomy woods and murmuring streams. 

Still let the wild winds shriek and shout, 

Still set the flying snows to rout; 

I care not where my feet may be 

When God has put you, love, with me. 



AN UNSENT LETTER 

Yellow and worn after long, long years, 
Hiding its treasures of smiles and tears, 
Breathing soft odors from days of old, 
Sweetest of stories, yet still untold! 

Whispers I hear from the faded sheet, 
Saying, "I love you, I love you, sweet! 
Foolishly fond though my words may be, 
Tell me, O tell me, if you love me!" 

Love then was light as the feet of a fawn, 
Brilliant of brow as dazzle of dawn, 
Jocund as June, unwearied of wing, 
Hearing his heart like a goldfinch sing. 

Life was as sweet as a seraph's bliss, 
Youth was a dream, a dimple, a kiss, — 
Beautiful girls and beautiful boys, 
Jubilant smiles and jubilant joys! 

Tattered alone in the garret here, 
Breathing its tidings of hope and fear, 
After the writer grows old and gray, 
After his passion has passed away. 

[ 148 ] 



Selected Toems 



Did the maiden watch with anxious eyes, 
Pining away with her secret sighs, 
Treading alone with her dead, dull pain, 
Waiting your coming, but still in vain? 

Never, O never, love's clasp and kiss, 
Never, O never, love's honeyed bliss, 
Never, O never, love's Summer sun 
Came to the hearts that should have been one. 

Over the earth he wanders alone, 
Callous and cold and cynical grown ; 
She who should be a mother and wife, 
Faces alone a long, loveless life. 

Silent in dust you will sleep at last, 
After dull years of waiting have passed. 
Shall you meet some day in God's own fold, 
And the words of love at last be told? 



LA PALOMA* 

Peerless love-song of the golden South, 
Melodious lyric of the lands of light, 

Warm as the kisses from a wooing mouth, 
As brilliant as the dawn and sad as night! 

1 see the vine-clad tropic mountains there, 

The birds of gorgeous plumage flitting by, 
The tangled forest and the panther's lair, 
The dark-blue ocean and the dark-blue sky. 

I see the star-eyed Spanish damsel there, 
A blood-red cactus on her beauteous breast, 

And dazzling diamonds in her dusky hair, 
Like a proud peacock's iridescent crest. 

[ 149 ] 



Selected 'Poems 



And close beside the daughter of old Spain, 

I see her lover of the years of yore, 
I feel the fierce heart-hunger of his pain, 

When peace and rest have fled forevermore. 

O lover, lover, cease thy sobs and sighs ! 

Soft sleep deserts us when our souls adore ; 
For those who love not are the truly wise, 

And those who love are happy nevermore. 

O lover, lover, she must soon grow old ; 

Her stately step will be no longer proud ; 
Her heart will crumble in the churchyard mould, 

And dewy dark eyes vanish in her shroud. 

O lover, lover, in her coffin low, 

The pure white flowers will wither on her breast, 
That fair, fair breast whose love you longed to know, 

Forgotten like a swan's forsaken nest. 

But still thy passion leaps to mine own heart, 
Thy grief, thy joy, thy clasping and thy kiss, — 

Love's honeyed whispers and his poisoned dart, 
His thorns among the roses of his bliss. 

And when I hearken to thy melodies 

I feel thine anguish in my bosom burn — 

The pangs of gazing into dark brown eyes, — 
And pine to love and be loved in return. 

O lover, lover, though thy heart and hand 
Are crumbling clay amid the charnel rust, 

They come to haunt me in this Northern land 
Till I, like thee, am ashes and am dust. 

Yet, lover, lover, cease thy sobs and sighs; 

Soft sleep deserts us when our souls adore ; 
For those who love not are the truly wise, 

And those who love are happy nevermore. 

*"The Dove," a Spanish-American love song. 

[ 150 ] 



Selected Poems 



A PORTRAIT OF HENRY TIMROD 

Strange eyes gaze sadly from that weary face, 
Beneath a brow that shows the seal of care; 

Defeat and Disappointment leave their trace 
Upon the youthful visage pictured there. 

The same old story here is handed down — 
The true-born poet and the same old doom — 

The bard who starves while rhymesters wear the crown, 
Who finds his throne erected in a tomb. 

Gone are the glories of your halcyon days, 
Gone are the heroes whom you sung of yore ; 

Their banners in the skies no longer blaze, 
Their fervent shouts are stilled forevermore. 

No more their white steeds paw the bloody field, 
No more their trumpets rouse the raptured soul, 

No more their ranks in fiery fight are wheeled, 
No more their drums like sullen thunders roll. 

Yet as I view your old-time picture, all 

The proud past blossoms, though your day has fled; 
Once more I hear your Stuart's battle-call, 

And see your Stonewall rising from the dead. 

I see their blazoned banners float like fire, 

I hear their shouts sweep down the perished years ; 

I hear once more the throbbing of your lyre, 
Ecstatic with a nation's hopes and fears. 

And foes with friends now come to honor you, 
O poet, free from blemish and from blame. 

A wreath is yours as long as men are true, 
As long as Courage wins the crown of Fame. 



C 151 ] 



Selected Poems 



THE PORTRAIT OF MICHAELANGELO 

Here, painted by himself with rugged force, 
The master's likeness gravely gazes down ; 

A man advanced in years, in garments coarse, 
Is limned in sober gray and black and brown. 

See here the firm-set mouth, the shaggy hair, 
The bushy beard, the high, determined jaw, 

The knotted hand, as though from out his lair 
A dreaming lion stretched his mighty paw. 

High over all, his many- wrinkled brows 
Lift like a thunder-smitten mountain dome, — 

A head to wear Athenian myrtle boughs, 
And laurel chaplets of Eternal Rome ! 

As in a rough brown bulb with ragged husk, 
A splendid starry lily has its birth, 

His genius groped to dawn amid this dusk, 
And brought from heaven new glories for the earth. 

Here, in this Winter landscape, white with snow, 
With naked rocks, bare trees and shivering herds, 

The Springtime slept, to wake in godlike glow, 
With new-born blossoms lulled by songs of birds. 

In melancholy majesty he stands, 
Alone, and all bereft of earthly ties. 

No maiden ever kissed those rugged hands, 
Or lured the love-light from those solemn eyes ! 

Born of no mother, save a marble sheath, 
His offspring, waiting for him, slept alone; 

His Moses and his David first caught breath, 
Begotten by their father out of stone. 

Like one who roams at twilight, lone and late, 
A mountain peak, where winds of Winter moan, 

The truly wise can never find a mate, 
The truly great must always tread alone ! 

[ 152 ] 



Selected Toetns 



Down in deep vales he hears the herdsman's cries, 
The cowbells faintly tinkling far below, — 

But all around him as the daylight dies, 
Eternal cold, and everlasting snow! 



ON A BEAUTIFUL PORTRAIT BY AN 
UNKNOWN ARTIST 

A sweet face smiles upon me from this frame, 
A high-born beauty, reigning long ago; 

But not a record gives the artist's name; 

His home, his country, none shall ever know. 

O what an art, to triumph o'er the tomb, 
To keep that lovely face forever fair, 

To keep that youth in everlasting bloom, 
Defeating Death, and bidding Time despair! 

Old age can never fade this virgin rose, 

Nor mar that smile, which flits but never flies, 

Nor fleck those tresses with December snows, 
Nor dim the glory of those splendid eyes. 

The peaches of those cheeks are blushing still, 

As in enchanted orchards long ago, 
When some forgotten Autumn felt a thrill 

Of mellow honey through its fruitage glow 

The cherries of those lips are ripe and red, 
But still unplucked, and free from all decay, 

Though poaching birds and bare-foot truants fled 
As seasons came and pined and passed away. 

Yet Artist, Artist, in thine ecstacy, 

Thou hast forgotten all the world holds dear; 

Fame, fortune, power, all eluded thee, 
No acclamations thou shalt ever hear. 

[ 153 ] 



Selected "Poems 



Upon thy brow shall never rest a wreath, 
No princely palm thy hand shall ever hold, 

And thee, victorious over envious Death, 
Oblivion's mantle ever shall enfold. 

Day after day, mayhap, thy feet have gone 
In weary, weary search for daily bread, 

Or thou hast labored from the dusk till dawn, 
And tears of anguish in a garret shed. 

Yet Artist, Artist, in thine eager joy 
Of toiling lovingly and toiling well, 

Like some enthusiastic, ardent boy, 

Thy thrill of triumph none can ever tell. 

For he who saves from death the works of God, 
Upon his shoulders feels the bud of wings, 

Has plucked a blossom never sprung from sod, 
Is greater than the greatest of the kings. 



POE'S COTTAGE AT FORDHAM 

Here stands the little antiquated house, 
A few old.-f ashioned flowers at the door ; 

The dead past leaves it, quiet as a mouse, 
Though just beyond a giant city roar. 

See here the curious porch, the attic there, 

The quaint square window with its awkward blind, 

The weather-beaten wall, so blank and bare, 
And shadowed by an apple tree behind. 

Within this room Virginia lay when ill, 

A black cat nestling there to warm her feet ; 

And so she languished, growing paler still, 
And shivering as the winds of Winter beat. 

[ 154 ] 



Selected Poems 



And here her mother through the long, long night 
Watched ever by the poor consumptive's side. 

Here by the smoky lamp's low flickering light 
They looked upon Virginia when she died. 

And here it was they wrapped her in her shroud, 
And hence they took her through the falling snow. 

So on this old house closed at last the cloud 
That haunts it still with griefs of long ago. 

And here the poet's life grew darker still 
As dream by dream had vanished into air; 

Here day by day grew weaker yet his will, 
As golden hopes were rusted in despair. 

But here were born those strains that can not die, 
Romances that shall rule the human heart. 

Here Fame, whose summer hears no autumn sigh, 
Shall rear immortal marbles to his art. 

Here Ligeia haunts us with enchanting eyes, 
We catch the rustle of Morella's gown; 

Here Usher treads, and William Wilson dies, 
And Israfel sings Poe's supreme renown. 



HOMER 

What earthly King who envies not my name? 

What century shall behold my honor dim? 
As virile and as vigorous is my fame 

As when mankind first heard my morning hymn. 

Caesar has come, has conquered, passed away; 

Young Alexander's empire is a dream ; 
Napoleon shared my sceptre for a day, 

Then saw the snapping of his cobweb scheme. 

[ 155 ] 



Selected Toems 



But I, who living begged my daily bread, 

Found death the gateway to a golden throne ; 

I rule the living, though they call me dead, 
And time to me is but a term unknown. 

I see new poets come to take my place ; 

They can not lift my lance or bend my bow; 
If in their lines be loveliness or grace, 

I said the same three thousand years ago. 

So Babylon and Ninevah have gone, 

While I rejoice in everlasting day; 
Paris, Manhattan, London, had their dawn, 

And I shall see their splendor fade away. 

The dear old gods I knew in ancient days, 
Of Egypt and Assyria, Greece and Rome, 

Have lost their crowns, and strange new idols gaze 
Across the desert and the ocean foam. 

The golden-haired Apollo is no more, 

But songs I sang him still have power to thrill; 

Though Pallas pass, I keep my strength of yore; 
Great Pan is dead, but I am living still. 

Lo, by the everlasting throne of God 

Sits Gabriel with his trumpet in his hand, 

Waiting that far, far day, when sea and sod 
Give up their dead, before that Judge to stand. 

Not till that trumpet bids the sun grow black, 
Shall breath of God blow out my radiant flame ; 

Not till the earth shall wander from her track, 
And there is no more sea, shall die my name. 



[ 156 ] 



Selected Toems 



BYRON 

His heart was moulded in the weakness of the crumbling 

dust and clay, 
Yet mighty as the summit of some granite mountain, 

old and gray. 

His fancy twined the blushing roses round the crystal cup 
of mirth, 

Then like a fleeting phantom wandered through the des- 
ert's parching dearth ; 

Within his portals Love was throned in richest Oriental 
state, 

While at his doorway flourished thistles, thorns, and loath- 
some weeds of hate ; 

His spirit knew not Spring-time's songsters, nor her dewy 

waking flowers, 
But loved the sad magnificence of Autumn's gorgeous 

dying bowers ; 

His feet were strangers to the purple morning's palaces of 

light, 
But haunted vistas where the twilight's tearful eyes grew 

dim with night. 

The world hath grander, purer bards, like Alps enthroned 

on spotless snow, 
While he, like raging Aetna, flames forever with a fevered 

glow; 

But round their chilly crowns of ice the timid blossoms 
fear to twine, 

Whilst through his lavas spring the olive and the purple- 
clustered vine. 

[ 157 ] 



Selected Toems 



The world hath poets who from tears and thraldom rose 

to royal fame, 
While he from state descended to assume the bard's and 

patriot's name ; 

They with the spell of old Timotheus raised their muses 

to the sky, 
While he, like Saint Cecelia, drew his seraph earthward 

from on high. 

His name, though mark for fling of despot, and the blinded 

bigot's thrust, 
Shall live when Europe's tongues are silenced and the lips 

that spake them dust. 

NAPOLEON AND BYRON 

Two names together linked for evermore ; 

Their onward march no kingdoms can retard ; 
Their banners flame on every sea and shore, 

Immortal chieftain and immortal bard. 

Napoleon's name no longer awes the world; 

His legions long ago have shared his doom, 
His stately empire in the dust is hurled, 

His aspirations ended in a tomb. 

And Byron lost the fickle praise of man 

Amid the blossom of his youthful grace ; 
So then Death came to drag unto his den 

The classic beauty of that perfect face. 

And yet they live triumphant o'er their shrouds, 

In song and story, legend and romance. 
One, like an eagle, soars above the clouds, 

One, like a lion, rules the soul of France. 

Sons of the mountains and the stormy sea, 

With souls of thunder, and with hearts of flame, 

The czar of heroes, prince of poesy, 

The Spouse of Beauty, and the King of Fame. 

[ 158 ] 1 



Selected Poems 



THE BYRON CENTENARY 

1788—1888 

A hundred summers since his first birthday 
Have shone in splendor, then have drooped and died ; 
Earth's fond old heart has throbbed with joyous pride 
To greet them with their garlands green and gay, 
And ached with anguish as they passed away. 
But brightest summer decked her kingdoms wide 
When unto Byron's lyre her mounts replied — 
He perished, and her fields were sere and gray. 

Her sweetest buds were blooming when he came, 

But faded as his footsteps turned to leave. 

Among her sons is many a mighty name, 

But none like him, the reckless, bright and brave. 

He died, like music in a glorious dream, 

And Love's own heart was laid in Byron's grave. 

SHELLEY 

1792—1892 

He came amongst us, wandering from on high, 

Like golden-haired Apollo, long ago, 

To share with us our lives and labors low, 

And gaze with longing on his native sky; 

To sing sweet songs whose strains shall never die 

For weary mortals on their paths of woe ; 

To cause a golden city's walls to grow 

By magic of his heavenly harmony. 

But now the singer hath forever flown, 
And left us beating still our prison bars; 
His spirit over midnight's jeweled zone 
Returned to reign with Mercury and Mars, 
With Cassiopeia on her dazzling throne, 
And dusk Orion crowned with flaming stars. 

[ 159 ] 



Selected Poems 



TRIBUTE TO SHELLEY 

He was the son of Beauty and of Love, 

Born in the lilies of the land of dreams ; 

A blithesome boy, who wandered from his home 

In all his sweetness and his innocence, 

And brought to earth mellifluous melodies, 

Sung by the song-birds in its wondrous woods. 

The gladsome singer of the summer hours, 

The fair-haired playmate of the budding blooms, 

Who flitted like a shadow from our sight 

Amid our Autumn's waste of withered leaves. 

O wondrous child, thine innocence hath power 
To soar to heights where sages can not tread, 
Thy sweetness thrills the cheerless heart of earth, 
With strains triumphant of a starry lyre ; 
Our poets bring us fading flowers of earth, 
Thou bearest blossoms from the fields of heaven. 

His heart was deathless, but his form was dust, 
His breath is still, and he will sing no more! 
It seems the fire that smouldered in his heart 
Should warm his breast within the frozen ground, 
So that the Earth would throb within her womb 
And give new birth unto her fairest son, 
Just as the violets of the fragrant spring 
Are withered but to rise as fair again. 
But only humblest buds again can bloom ; — 
When angels fall they fall to rise no more, 
And stars once darkened, never beam again. 

But he shall dwell in lovelier lands than this, 
Low Earth he leaves to reign in Paradise, — 
A land of lilies and a land of love, 
Rich with the glories of eternal day, 

[ 160 ] 



Selected Poems 



Beyond the woes of this poor world of ours, 
Beyond the splendors of the radiant morn, 
Where Love doth live unchanged, unharmed by time, 
And where the canker touches not the flower. 

I am left here in loneliness and pain, 

Condemned to sing such humble songs as this, 

To yearn for power that is all his own ; 

Where all our best songs crave for nobler things, — 

Whose mortal rage, chained down, laments our fate, — 

The common wailings of all hearts together. 

But I am happy if my loving hands 

Add one poor leaflet to his laurel wreath. 



THE TOMB OF GALILEO 

I have grown weary of the idle show 

Of pompous Castle and pretentious Court, 

Of Churches — dingy wrecks of long ago — 
Of swords and guns in arsenal or fort. 

I sicken at the sight of tarnished toys, 

Of dead-and-buried mistresses of kings, 
Of spears of warring barons — bearded boys 

Who fumed and fought for cheap and childish things. 

I care not for the saint of mythic fame, 
Who wore brass haloes on an empty haed, 

The so-called patriot, who in Freedom's name, 

Heaped neighboring lands with hillocks of the dead. 

But here lies one, the brave, the great, the good, 

Worth all the kings and queens the whole world round ;- 

Make bare your head in reverential mood, 
For here indeed you tread on Holy Ground. 

[ 161 ] 



Selected Toems 



His life, from selfish earthly motives purged, 

Was consecrated unto you and me ; 
He took the blow, that we might go unscourged, 

And wore the chains, that we might wander free. 

He found the long-lost Pleiad, Saturn's band, 

And brought Jove's moons to yonder Tuscan hill ;— 

The second Joshua, at whose command 

The heavens ceased turning and the sun stood still. 

The moon in starry-frosted skies of night 
Shall write in splendor Galileo's name, 

And sun to sun at noon and morning light 
Shall blazon heaven with Galileo's fame. 



MELBA 

In radiating circles all aglow, 

The galleries glitter like a Northern light ; 
Electric torches wreathe the stage below 

Like royal gems of some Arabian night. 

I see the silks and satins swirling by 

With misty laces and aerial plumes, 
And diamonds palpitating far and nigh 

Through bowers of a paradise of blooms. 

Blue eyes outbeam the sapphire's bluish spark, 
O'er feathery fans like doves a-flutter there; 

Tiaras glimmer over tresses dark, 

And moon-like pearls on moon-like maids more fair. 

The curtain rises on a splendid scene 

Amid the plaudits of that splendid throng, 

And then She comes, of queenly beings Queen, 
World-famous Empress of the world of song. 

[ 162 ] 






Selected Poems 



stately singer, from thy magic voice 

The present, like a dreary dream, hath fled, 
In glories that have perished we rejoice, 

And transcendental splendors that were dead. 

1 hear a wild swan's piercing melodies 

At shrine of Venus, on the Cyprian shore, — 
Dying in glory under diamond skies 

When Venus, Queen of Beauty, reigns no more. 

In Persian gardens, under golden moons, 
I hear the nightingale still woo the rose, 

Though faded are their far, forgotten Junes, 

And twice five hundred years have healed their woes. 

By mediaeval castle, thrilled with bliss, 
I see the lovers trysting through the dark; 

In odorous dewy dusk I see them kiss, 
Till startled by the lyric of the lark. 

O thou hast suffered, peerless Queen of Song, 
And thrilled with keener than terrestrial joy, 

Hast loved and languished, borne the yoke of Wrong, 
And seen stern Fate thy noble hopes destroy. 

Upon thy brow the white swan lives again, 
And in thy lips the perished Persian rose, 

Within thy heart the nightingale's own pain, 
And in thy soul the dear dead lover's woes. 

The music ceases, and I wake to find 

The dull, dry story of our sordid life, 
The same old ways, where blind men lead the blind 

Through all the selfsame sorrow, toil and strife. 

Alas, to think that voice must pass away, 
And leave no marvel of thy matchless art, 

And never, never, after this short day, 

One breathing being shall those strains impart! 

[ 163 ] 



Selected Poems 



Alas, to think those lips shall then be dumb, 
That glorious name be graven on the tomb, 

And never, never, through the years to come 

Those notes divine shall vibrate through the gloom ! 

But, peerless lady, like thy silver songs, 

The stateliest empires soon must pass away, 

With all the murmur of their mighty throngs 
Like chirp of insects on a Summer day. 

Then princely Paris, radiant realm of art, 

Shall be abandoned in a waste alone, 
Manhattan but a long-forgotten mart, 

And lordly London but a heap of stone. 

Yet perfume cannot pass to nothingness. 

No blush on blossom ever come to naught; 
In some far Spring, beneath a beam's caress, 

They live again, with soulful sweetness fraught. 

No song, no poem ever thrilled in vain, 

Nor word of kindness, lover's smile or sigh: 

The True and Good and Beautiful remain, 
And Love lives on, though lovers all must die. 

So no thing beautiful is lost in death ; 

All that returns for which our souls repine ; 
Fadeless thy laurel and thy myrtle wreath, 

O peerless Empress of the voice divine! 



HOLLAND 

A land of straight canals, of quaint old towns, 
Fat cows, fine horses roaming level leas; 

Of poplar-bordered roads, of dykes and downs, 
And fisher-boats a-sail on misty seas. 

[ 164 ] 



Selected Poems 



A land of windmills and of wooden shoes, 

Stork-trodden marshes, meadows white with sheep, 

Where salt sea winds their vital forces infuse, 
And salt sea billows rouse the soul from sleep. 

A land which, hating sluggards, drones and slaves, 
Faced tides and tyrants since its life began. 

Brave little Conqueror of the ocean waves, 
Brave little Champion of the Rights of Man! 

SAINT AUGUSTINE 

Saint Augustine, Saint Augustine, 

What memories come to me, 

While treading down your quaint old streets, 

Along the tropic sea ! 

Where old Fort Marion rears his walls 

Of mouldering shells and sands, 

And green against an opal sky 

The tall palmettos stand. 

Here mocking-birds entrance the air 

With keen and quivering notes, 

And through the long gray Spanish moss 

The redbird's love-song floats. 

Here orange gardens scent thej breeze 

With wreaths of starry blooms, 

And citrons with the lemons hang 

Like gold in emerald glooms. 

Like Ponce de Leon, I have come, 

Old town, forever young, 

To find your bubbling Fount of .Youth 

For ages sought and sung. 

Alas! I find you fresh and green, 

Blithe in your old-time joy; 

But man, for all his plaints and ^prayers, 

Is only once a boy. 

[ 165 ] 



Selected Poems 



SAN GABRIEL MISSION 

A long, low building, reared of brick and stone, 

An iron railing running up its side ; 
A churchyard with its graves weed-over grown, 

And epitaphs which tall geraniums hide. 

A plumy pepper-tree hangs billowy boughs 
To shade the portals of the ancient church ; 

On crumbled walls the droning hornets drowse, 
And now and then some pigeon finds a perch. 

Two swarms of bees have found a quiet home 
In hollowed niches of the Mission's side; 

Here they have treasured honey, hung the comb, 
As years have flourished, pined away and died. 

Here in the chapel hang the old-time saints, 

Brought centuries past from convent-cells of Spain ; 

Stern-browed and formal, in their vivid paints 
They hold their own as empires wax and wane. 

This quaint baptismal font of copper here, 
Old monks beat into shape for pious need ; 

Here fired with zeal, yet half in doubt and fear, 
Three thousand red men chose the white man's creed. 

Around the rectory door frail roses twine, 
In pink and yellow clusters faintly sweet; 

Lan tanas glow like red and golden wine, 

In brilliant sprays that hang from head to feet. 

Flame not, lan tana, with too bold a red, 
Flush not, young rose, in vanity or pride; 

Remember how your loving Master bled, 
Remember how your loving Master died ! 

[ 166 ] 



Selected Toems 



Without these walls one hears the mighty world 

Rage like an awful ocean in alarm ; 
Here in this haven every sail is furled, 

And every sailor safe from every harm. 

Without these walls let revolutions roll, 
Let opochs march, let progress never cease; 

Here seek the balm that soothes the weary soul, 
That gives the broken-hearted wanderer peace! 

THE EVERGLADES 

Vast, watery fields of slender waving grass; 
Near by, a green and matted mangrove swamp ; 
Huge live-oak limbs where verdant creepers romp, 
And orchids hang red flowers in a mass ; 
A river in a bramble-tangled pass, 
Where trumpet blossoms swing in scarlet pomp ; 
Great bamboo thickets, oozy, dark and damp, 
And starry lilies in a green morass. 

White cranes on yonder cypress boughs alight, 

An old gray heron stalks demure and slow ; 

Then gliding through the gray-mossed forest's night, 

A water-snake dives in the dim bayou. 

I wonder, as the reptile sinks from sight, 

What monster shapes are swimming down below. 

NOON IN THE TROPICS 

A violet ocean and a violet sky; 
A glistening beach of red and yellow sands ; 
A promontory where one palm-tree stands ; 
Green orange groves, gold-fruited, far and nigh; 
Here clumps of cocoanuts soar to the sky, 
Here spreads the sugar and tobacco lands ; 
Here, deftly tilled by swarthy negro hands, 
Pineapple fields in burning sunshine lie. 

[ 167 ] 



Selected Toems 



Ah, what relief, should summer pass away, 

And bring this gorgeous pageant to a close ! 

Once more to see a dark November day 

Shake down his dead leaves while the north wind blows ! 

Once more to see December, cold and gray, 

From leaden clouds sweep swirls of fluttering snows! 

A MEXICAN WAYSIDE STATION 

A red-hot sun is blazing fiercely down 

On red-hot hills of dreary desert sand ; 
The ragged sage-brush all is scorched to brown, 

And gray with dust the mesquite bushes stand. 

Like grizzled ghosts the cactus thickets lift 

Their gaunt, gnarled fingers, barbed with spines for claws; 
Thorn-girdled, thrusting from a rocky rift, 

Are serried teeth of aloes sharp as saws. 

A stockade wall surrounds a hut of mud, 

Where naked urchins romp with mangy curs ; 

Dumb as a painted post, with scarlet hood, 
A mongrel native stares but never stirs. 

An ancient bucket hangs above a well, 

The well-rope dangling from a crooked stick ; 

Here beggars swarm, their harrowing tales to tell, 

Where hobbling hunchbacks crowd the maimed and sick. 

And here a broken wooden plough is left, 

Discarded with a battered wooden wheel, 
And here like shipwrecked seamen, all bereft, 

Two oxen by a shattered wagon kneel. 

On brazen zinnias withering blazes beat, 

The hollyhock in thirsty anguish dies ; 
The prickly-pears, a-blister in the heat, 

Ooze out their sickly syrup for the flies. 

[ 168 ] 



Selected Toems 



But here a-swing from cracks of mud-built walls, 
There blooms a peerless lovely yellow rose ; 

Her sweetness all the Northern Spring recalls, 
New-born at melting of the northern snows. 

And here, like Patience, still she waits and waits 
In burning suns that doom her soon to die, 

Yet never breathes a murmur at the fates 
Who forced her exile from her native sky. 

The railroad trains pass thundering North and South, 
And bear rich gifts to others far away ; 

But here she lingers in the land of drought, 
Forgotten as she fades from day to day. 

Here one by one her golden petals fall, 

Yet hear no sighs borne on her fragrant breath ; 

Rose of Patience! Life soon takes your all, 
And leaves you to an unregretted death. 

And so, my heart, in patience still you wait, 
While fame and fortune come and pass me by ; 

The great world rumbles on in pomp and state, — 
It would not answer though it heard you cry. 

So, glorious dreams, here I can only sit 

With folded hands and watch you fade from view ; 

1 smile in silence as I see you flit, 

Yet all my life is lost in losing you. 



AT THE CATHEDRAL OF^MEXICO 

Here gold and silver glimmer everywhere, 

Through gracious twilight, down the solemn aisles; 

A cloud of incense dims the dreamy air, 
As up yon stair a long procession files. 

[ 169 ] 



Selected Poems 



They reach the altar ; priests and chorus-boys 
Are all enrobed in scarlet draped in white ; 

How quiet! Not the shadow of a noise 
Disturbs the pious meaning of the sight. 

Then like a constellation, star by star, 

The golden candlesticks have burst in bloom ; 

Now like great winds from Paradise afar 
The glorious organ pipes begin to boom. 

The sweet, sharp voices of the bird-like boys 
Respond to deep-toned chan tings of the priest ; 

O what a call to heaven's transcendent joys 
Beside the Bridegroom at His wedding feast ! 

Yon sculptured angel with the golden wings 
Seems beckoning to a blissful realm above ; 

Ah, is it true, that song the choir-boy sings, 
Of endless life, of everlasting love? 

And then my gaze falls on a wooden saint 

Whose wooden feet long in this niche have stood ; 

Poor little doll! Your lips, through gaudy paint, 
Seem saying "I would help you if I could." 

O wooden saint, outside, on yonder square, 
The Inquisition fixed its fearful stake ; 

O whisper not the horrors that were there, — 
And all enacted for Religion's sake! 

Down yonder street, housed in yon rambling pile, 
Are hideous Aztec idols, all a-grin; — 

Nay, do not shrink my question with a smile, — 
Those Gods, like yours, presumed to pardon sin! 

There stands the Aztec sacrificial stone ; 

Above it frightful Aztec idols scowl ; 
They heard ten thousand human victims groan, 

And heard a million maddened votaries howl! 

[ 170 ] 



Selected Toems 



Perplexed, confused between the warring creeds, 
I can not tell which way to turn, in sooth. 

My anxious soul, beset by sorest needs, 

Like Pilate, still is asking "What is Truth?" 

O, breathe me, wooden saint, one precious word! 

Come, tell me, as we two forever part, — 
Will all these prayers in heaven at last be heard, 

Or end forever at your wooden heart? 

IN A TROPICAL GARDEN 

Here every honey-hearted sweet 

In fruits of gold and red 

The heavy-laden tropic trees 

With rich profusion shed. 

Here buff and scarlet blossoms hang 

From vines of glossy green, 

And humming birds, with ruby throats, 

Like floating flames are seen. 

Here pink and purple passion-flowers 

Hang scarfs of airy silk, 

And claret-clouded orchids bloom 

By orchids white as milk. 

Here red and yellow mangoes cling, 

Here citrons bend the twigs, 

Here green and golden melons trail, 

Here swing delicious figs. 

What gorgeous flowers, what luscious fruits 

Unknown to me before ! 

I gaze in wonder on them now, 

But soon shall see no more. 

Their blaze of glory stills the speech, 

Their brilliance blinds the eyes ; 

What Tyrian tints, what heavenly hues, 

Like flaming sunset skies ! 

[ 171 ] 



Selected Poems 



No Northern violet opens here 
Its baby eyes of blue; 
No daisy lifts from tufted grass 
To drink the morning dew. 
No oak tree ever quivers here 
In wanton winds of heaven ; — 
Ah, I am but a stranger, too, 
Here for a moment driven. 

Yet, Beauty ever hand in hand 

With Sadness still is met; 

These glories only fill my heart 

With longing and regret. 

What sorrow haunts this scented air 

For bliss once all my own ; 

Yes, Love and Joy should both be mine, 

Yet here am I alone ! 

BESIDE THE DANUBE 

Beside the Danube let me sit 

And view the scene before me, 
While olden griefs and olden joys 

On spirit wings flit o'er me. 
This is the stream in song renowned, 

Far-famed in storied pages, 
Whose shores are haunted by the dreams 

Of lost romantic ages. 

And yet, O Danube, as I muse 

Beside your rippling waters, 
I think not of your chivalry, 

Your splendid sons and daughters. 
Forgotten are your mounts and vales, 

Your peasant-cots, your castles, 
Your Kings and Queens, your peace, your wars, 

Your noblemen, your vassals. 

[ 172 ] 



Selected Toems 



I think of one who sang to me 

In years gone by forever, 
Of lovers, who one night in June 

Rowed on you, Danube River. 
O, I remember still that night, 

Your city lights a-glimmer, 
And how the mellow moon arose 

And made your wavelets shimmer. 

Ah, in those days we never thought 

We ever would be parted ; 
We thought to wander side by side, 

Forever single-hearted. 
How strange ! Beneath her churchyard grass 

She dreams no more, O, never, 
Of one, six thousand miles away 

Beside the Danube River. 



AT THE PARIS MORGUE 

Behind a glass, all in a ghastly row, 

We here behold the loathsome pauper dead ; 

Sick at the sight, our horror bids us go; 
We shudder, start, we turn away the head. 

Shocked and disgusted at those staring eyes, 

Those blue-white brows, lips withered, pinched and 
brown, 

We quail at hideous Death without disguise, 
And like a leaden lump our hearts sink down. 

And yet, poor creatures, you have loved and laughed, 
And known Parisian glory in your prime ; 

The cup of passion and of mirth you quaffed, 
Before the days you fell to want and crime. 

[ 173 ] 



Selected Poems 



Old woman, in your girlhood long ago, 

Some lover's fingers fondled through your hair ; 

He breathed sweet words no other ears might know, 
And clasped you close, and swore that you were fair. 

Old man, your mother would not know you now, — 
Her blue-eyed boy is now a shocking sight ! — 

God ! who would think a man could fall so low, 
That such a dawn could die in such a night? 

Young woman, trusting hearts are seldom wise! 

You here forsaken in the Morgue alone? 
Man's sweetest vows are oft but honeyed lies; 

Youth's tender heart may sometimes turn to stone! 

Young man, you loudly swore to win the race; 

Hither you came in all your boyhood bloom ; 
See, glorious Paris turns away her face, 

And leaves you in the horror of this tomb ! 

O Paris, Paris, you have slain them all, 

Your foolish lovers, snared within your spell ; 

You sit enthroned, robed in a funeral pall, 
Your face a heaven, and your heart a hell! 



THE DESERT 

Streched helpless on the burning sands I lie, 
While scorching suns beat on me as they pass. 

Day after day I watch the glaring sky, 

A fiery furnace reared like burnished brass. 

Spread like a tawny lion's shaggy hide, 

The yellow plains reach hillocks red and brown ; 

See here the bones where dogs and men have died, 
While imp-faced rocks in hideous hate looked jdown ! 

[ 174 ] 



Selected Toems 



No living thing will come to share my grief, 
Save when at night the famished coyotes howl, 

Or, coiled at twilight by some withered sheaf, 
The rattler hisses at the screeching owl. 

Ah, if I only once could hear the birds 

Trill songs of joy in woodlands fresh and cool! 

Ah, if I only once could see the herds 
Wade, lowing, knee-deep in some dark-green pool ! 

Ah, if I only once could feel the tide 

Come thundering with its giant foaming waves ; 
Through all my burning veins cool streams should glide, 

And raise the corpses from my world ;of graves! 

But year by year I wait and wait and wait, 

And year by year I linger in despair ; 
Yet still I hear the stern decree of Fate ; 

'No rain, No rain!" through white-hotfnoons a-glare. 



<<i 



God, remember I was dear to Thee 

In green, glad mornings ere I felt Thy frown. 

1 am Thy daughter; hear and pity me, 

Accurst and fruitless, withered, barren, brown! 

A gray-haired virgin, still unwooed, unwed, 
I waste away unloved and all alone ; 

My bosom is a dried-up river bed, 
The heart within it but a dusty stone. 

O, all Thy gifts are held beyond my grasp; 

I am a woman ; let me sweetly rest, 
To feel a lover's arms around me clasp, 

A tiny infant cooing on my breast ! 

No rain, no dew, from cruel sky or sea; 

In restless, raging passion here I lie. 
Like Rachel I am crying out to Thee, 

"God, give me children, or else let me die!" 

[ 175 ] 



Selected Toems 



DOVE OF THE DESERT 

Dove of the desert, so wild and so free, 

What nook in this waste is dear unto thee? 
Around you I see the dead cactus stand, 

And brown, withered weeds on hot hills of sand. 
Here yawns the red gully, here burns the dead plain, 

Here hangs the sharp rocks, all thirsty for rain. 
O dove of the desert, so wild and so free, 

What spot in these barr?ns is blest unto thee? 

Dove of the desert, around thee are spread, 
In the alkali dust, the bones of the dead. 

No spring can be seen, no blossom uprears 

Through the bayonet-bush with its porcupine spears. 

No cloud cools the brow of the hot, fevered plain, 
Unbaptized, unblest, with the patter of rain. 

dove of the desert, as meek as a child, 

What charm brings thee here to this death-haunted 
wild? 

Dove of the desert, you find a sweet rest 
When sinking at night to sleep on your nest. 

The desert is barren, and sterile and hot, 
Yet it gives to your heart a consecrate spot. 

1 traverse great cities, yet I find no home, 

On the crowded streets I in solitude roam. 
There out in the desert, you mate with your own, — 
Dove of the desert, I fare forth alone. 



[ 176 ] 



Selected Poems 



THE BLUEBIRD 

When the bluebird comes in the days of spring, 
With a sweet, soft note and swift, wild wing, 
When the redbirds blush and the dogwoods bloom, 
And the daffodil comes from her chilly tomb, 

When the fox-glove peers through the tender grass, 
And the bluet peeps like a roguish lass, 
When the south winds with a swirl of showers, 
And a bugle blast through the budding bowers, 

Then I hear the moan and the pensive plaint 
Of his throbbing throat, like a love-song faint 
From the far, far lands where the dear ones go 
When they leave us lorn in a world of woe. 

So the primrose knows of his secret well, 
And the brown bee learns from the lily bell, 
And the wrens have heard from the friendly doves 
That the violet is the one he loves. 

And they say his heart is forever true 
To the one wee maid with the eyes of blue ; 
At his songs she wakes in the morning light, 
And they fold her lids at the fall of night. 

In the days of old, so the wild flowers say, 
When the world was young as an April day, 
When the red man roved through the Western Wild 
With a heart as free as a wilful child, 

Then the bluebird came as an angel white 
From the lands of love and the lands of light, 
Where the blasts never blow and the skies never snow, 
And he trod with men through the world below, 

[ 177 ] 



Selected Toems 



Till his eyes were cast on the damsel sweet, 
With her flower-like face and her fawn-like feet. 
And they loved so well that the birds and bees 
Would repeat the tale to the gossiping trees. 

Of a mortal race was the lovely maid, 
And the day would dawn when her face would fade, 
While the angel came from a world on high, 
Where the night falls not, nor the blest ones die. 

In her youth and joy was the arrow sped, 
And they laid her low with the dreamless dead ; 
So she passed away from her loyal brave, 
And his clasp and kiss to the silent grave. 

So the fleet days fly and the years pass by, 
And the centuries fade and the ages die, 

And he pines away in his passion true 

Till his raiment white is an ashen blue. 

So the bluebird sings to his long-lost love 
Through the fields below and the skies above, 
From the noon to night, through the misty morn, 
Through the summers, the springs, till the falls forlorn. 

And she loves him so as he pours his notes, 
And the dear, dear call through the forest floats 
In her moulded shroud, after long, long years, 
She awakes at last and her loved one hears. 

When the springtime comes through the sleet and snow, 
She trills at his call in her grave below, 
And returns to him with her dear, dark eyes, 
So a violet blooms under April skies. 

But the bluebird sings, and her lips are dumb, 
And the bluebird calls, but she cannot come. 
And the one reply she makes from her tomb 
Is her soft, soft breath, with its frail perfume. 

[ 178 ] 



Selected 'Poems 



When he sings love-songs she but sobs and sighs, 
And her sweet, sweet breath in its dumbness dies; 
As the dew-drops fall she is faint with fears, 
And her blue, blue eyes are bedimmed with tears. 

But the wild flowers hear what the lovers say 
Through the ardent hours of the April day; 
They have told the words of their songs to me, 
And so I will tell of their secrets to thee. 

The Bluebird 

"Violet sweet, with the eyes of blue, 
Violet sweet, with the diadem dew, 
Violet sweet, the dearest to me, 
Violet sweet, I am waiting for thee! 

"Lying alone in thy dungeon gloom, 
Parted from me in thy mournful tomb, 
See, I await with a heart of lead, — 
Listen to me, and wake from the dead ! 

"Violet sweet, I am filled with fears, 
Violet sweet, I am blind with tears, 
Violet sweet, awake to my trill, 
Violet sweet, I am faithful still!" 

The Violet 

"Beautiful bird, I have waited long, 
Beautiful bird, I have heard thy song, 
Beautiful bird, so faithful to me, 
Beautiful bird I love none but thee! 

"Waiting for years under dank, dark sods, 
Shrouded and still under hard, cold clods, 
Numb with despair, my hopes had all fled, 
Scattered and lost with the dreamless dead. 

[ 179 ] 



Selected Toems 



1 'Beautiful bird, bringing life unto me, 
Beautiful bird, I am searching for thee, 
Beautiful bird, from death I depart, 
Beautiful bird, to thy sweet, sweet heart!" 



The Bluebird 

1 'Loving thee still when the redbirds call, 
Loving thee still when the red leaves fall, 
Loving thee still when the blue-bell blows, 
Loving thee still through the chill, white snows; 

"Loving thee still in the radiant noons, 
Loving thee still under ghostly moons, 
Loving thee still as the days go by, 
Loving thee still as the dim years die." 



The Violet 

"Dreaming of thee in the bleak, black earth, 
Dreaming of thee in the dim, dark dearth, 
Dreaming of thee in the morning light, 
Dreaming of thee in the mournful night ; 

"Dreaming of thee through the winter gloom, 
Dreaming of thee through the springtime bloom, 
Dreaming of thee as I ope to the sky, 
Dreaming of thee as I wither and die." 



The Bluebird 

"And the wild rose singe th her songs to me, 
Seeking, O precious, to woo me from thee, 
And her proud head bends from her stately seat 
In scorn upon thee far down at her feet; 

[ 180 ] 



Selected Poems 



"The marsh lily sayeth she is fairer by far, 
With her white, white breast, her face like a star, 
She begs me, O sweet, to flee from thy side 
And make her, O sweet, my love and my bride. 

4 'But never shall I grow faithless to thee, 

fairest and sweetest and truest to me ! 
My heart and my soul forever are wed 

To the one lost love in realms of the dead." 

THE HUMMING-BIRD 

1 flit through the bowers of April flowers 
And the mellow skies of June, 

O'er sparkling floods and bloomy woods, 

From orient morn to radiant noon. 
From the fairy cells of budding bells 

I suck the golden honey ; 
They sway and they swing at the wave of my wing, 

And my fires make shadows sunny. 
Unknown to pain and to earthly stain, 

I glitter near and far; 
My courses I run, like a beam from the sun, 

Or a midnight shooting star. 

In the torrid zone my fires are sown, 

And in northern worlds of ice, 
Over wizard strands in the Arctic lands 

And the palmy isles of paradise. 
Where the awful night, in winter bedight, 

Shrouds desolate, boundless seas, 
I glint through the glooms with butterfly plumes 

When the mariner despairing flees. 
The dark-eyed maiden of the Southern Eden 

Far, far from the kingdom of snows, 
Will give me a smile as I bask awhile 

In the heart of a tropic rose. 

[ 181 ] 



Selected Poems 



No mortal sorrow, no fear of the morrow 

Can darken my rainbow hours ; 
Though the bale be thine, the bliss shall be mine ; 

I live forever in budding flowers. 
When the buds I cherished have pined and have perished, 

I fly to the younger blooms. 
I know not the dearth of this lonely earth, 

Nor the shades of its silent tombs. 
By the seraphs given, I flutter from heaven, 

I can not abide in a cage ; 
I beat at my bars a-bleed from my scars, 

Till I die in restless rage. 



THE MOCKING-BIRD 

From an Indian Legion 



I gazed at a mocking-bird high in a tree, 
And this was the song he warbled to me : 

II 

Thou wonderest why, as aloft I soar, 
I sing to thee not the same strains o'er, 
And marvel much that the notes I pour 
By other blithe birds were thrilled before, 
And every sound on the sea or shore 
I mimic and mock forever more. 

Ill 

Far beyond the mystic mountains, 
Far beyond the sunset's throne, 

Where the crystal western fountains 
Bubble through the forest lone, 

[ 182 ] 



Selected Toems 



Lived an Indian tribe now perished, 

I their prince in days of old ; 
Yet a maiden sweet I cherished 

In a neighboring nation's fold. 

But our tribes were foemen ever, 
So our love we dared not tell, 

And I saw her sweet face never 
Till the twilight shadows fell. 

Then with stealthy steps I sought her 
With a signal sharp and shrill, 

Till the foeman chieftain's daughter 
Joined me by the woodland rill. 

I would mock the thrush in flying, 

Or the katydid at night, 
Hooting owl or panther crying, 

So her steps were guided right. 

Then we two would roam together, 
Kissing in the friendly gloom, 

Till the blooming stars would wither 
And the night sink in her tomb. 

But together once they found us, 
And they doomed us both to die ; 

To the stake they dragged and bound us, 
Where the cruel flames streamed high. 

But the great God heard our sighing: 
In the sky a storm upreared ; 

From the smoke two birds came flying, 
And the lovers disappeared. 

Yet we thoughtless twain had ever 
Gazed but in each other's eyes, 

Impious souls, had worshipped never 
Him who rules within the skies. 

[ 183 ] 



Selected Poems 



So he saved us but to doom us 

Through the moons to roam apart, 
While despair seeks to consume us, 

Reigning in each breaking heart. 

I, a mock-bird, fondly singing, 

Robed in sombre ashen gray, 
She, with gorgeous plumage, winging 

In some forest far away. 

IV 

My tongue must twitter through all the hours, 
Still mocking each sound in woodland bowers, 
The wail of winds and sobs of showers, 
The cricket's shrill chirp in fading flowers, 
The night-hawk's cry in her pine-tree towers, 
The bark of the wolf when midnight lowers. 

But then at last, in a dim, sweet year, 
When gray with despair and gray with fear, 
And mocking still at the sounds I hear, 
I shall trill the true note that strikes mine ear, 
The song that is sung by my long-lost dear, 
And then her sweet face shall reappear. 

Till then this song over forests wide 
I sing as I seek my banished bride : 

V 

I am seeking for thee ever through the emerald woods of 

May, 
I am seeking for thee ever through October's fields of 

gray; 

I am seeking for thee ever through the June-time's golden 

glory, 
I am seeking for thee ever through December's twilight 

hoary; 

[ 184 ] 



Selected Toems 



I am seeking for thee ever where the morning buds are 

blooming, 
I am seeking for thee ever where the vesper shades are 

looming; 

I am seeking for thee ever through the dazzling tropic 

noons, 
I am seeking for thee ever under wan and wasted moons ; 

I am striving still to find thee through the green magnolia 

trees, 
I am striving still to find thee by the misty northern seas ; 

I am striving still to find thee in the palmy Indian Islands, 
I am striving still to find thee in the chill and trackless 
highlands; 

I am striving still to find thee on the crimson cactus blos- 
soms, 

I am striving still to find thee in the white lake-lilies' 
bosoms ; 

I am striving still to find thee with the Aztec meek and 

mild, 
I am striving still to find thee with the Huron's savage 

child. 

So I seek thee, always faithful, seek thee, sweetest, thus 

forever, 
But I find thee in my roamings, banished, vanished darling, 

never. 



VI 

Hear the blackbird, silver-throated, calling me to meet him 

in the breezy boughs, 
Hear the bluejay, blithe and buoyant, bidding me to join 

him in his mad carouse; 

[ 185 ] 



Selected "Poems 



Hear the redbird, wild and wilful, teasing me to aid him 

in some curious quest, 
Hear the bluebird, sweet and soothing, bidding me to come 

and see his happy nest ; 

Hear, amid pink-blossomed orchards, wooing, cooing of the 

fond enamoured dove, 
And the oriole, her rival, begging me to bless her with my 

love. 

But my heart is ever faithful; never shall another love be 

known to me; 
Though the myriad ages wither, in my visions only one 

sweet face I see. 

VII 

I burn, 

I long, I yearn, 

Through autumns chill and red, 

Where blasted, burning deserts spread, 

To see once more thy precious, loving face, 

And hear once more thy wild, sweet, fawn-like tread of 

grace. 

I've not 

Thy love forgot ; 

Then wilt thou let me pine 

Far from thy starry eyes divine? 

Return, return! then like a blithesome boy 

I'll sing forever for thee thrilling tunes of joy! 

VIII 

Indian wigwams, Indian camp-fires from their ruthless 

pale-faced foes have vanished, 
And the red men, like the red leaves, on a hoary winter 

blast are banished. 

[ 186 ] 



Selected Poems 



All our sacred groves have fallen, all the trophies of our 

tribe have perished, 
All our legends long forgotten, and our mother- tongue no 

longer cherished. 

But amid the desolation, ever vainly for thy presence 
pining, 

Never in my tearful visions have I seen thy glorious plum- 
age shining. 

Yet another love can never make me drink from out his 

bubbling chalice, 
And no other maiden woo me to abide within her blissful 

palace. 

I shall love thee till the springtime thrilleth not the earth's 

breast with emotion, 
I shall love thee till the dew-drops all have vanished from 

the desert ocean. 

Though I find thee, beauteous being, not till all the mount- 
ains burst asunder, 

And the judgment trumpet rouses all the earth's dead like 
a peal of thunder. 



THE ORIOLE 

I 

Oriole, swift oriole, 
All the Orient glories stole 

In the splendor of your sable and your orange plumes, 
Come from tropic lands of fire 
In your royal, rich attire, 

Like the dazzle of a dawning through the ebon midnight 
glooms. 

[ 187 ] 



Selected Toems 



Oriole, swift oriole, 

Like a fiery-hearted coal, 

Or a blazing topaz in the darkness of a mine, 

Like a blossom black as night 

With a breast of burning light, 

Or the jet and saffron banners of an autumn day's decline. 

Like a meteor's yellow spark 
In the bosom of the dark, 

Like the flaming treasures of some old Arabian cave, 
Like the gems a gypsy wears, 
Tiger eyes in lurid lairs, 

Or a crown of flashing jewels in a dead king's gloomy 
grave. 

Oriole, swift oriole, 

Like the fierce and fiery soul 

Of a sinful seraph who is doomed forevermore, 

Come from tropic lands of light 

Unto Northern lands of night, 

Over palms of peerless islands, over ocean's sullen roar! 

Oriole, swift oriole, 
You are like a shining scroll, 

All the tropic glories burnished on your brilliant wings, 
And our tender Northern blooms 
Waken from their chilly tombs 

As you flame above our forests in the summers and the 
springs. 

II 

In the ages that have fled, 

In the generations dead, 

Far away in richest regions of the Southern land, 

You were eldest son and heir 

To a proud king ruling there, 

Dwelling at a peerless palace on a splendor-haunted strand. 

C 188 ] 



Selected Poems 



But one day it came to pass 

That you loved a beggar lass 

In this Northern land of storm and shadow far away, 

In this land of gloom and grief, 

Wailing wind and autumn leaf, 

Where the queenly summers perish in October skies of gray ; 

In this land of want and woe, 

In this land of sleet and snow, 

Where the sad September glimmers through a haze of 

tears, 
Where the birds are poor and plain, 
And the blossoms all are slain, 
Where the dark December conquers all the kingdoms of 

the years. 

And the beggar maiden thrush 
All her silvery songs would hush 
If she heard your footsteps coming to her secret nest; 
For your love the lass returned, 
And her fervent bosom burned, 

And her gentle heart would flutter with a sweet and sad 
unrest. 

But they tore you two apart, 
Prisoned you with aching heart 
Far away beyond the trackless oceans of the South, 
Leaving her to pine alone, 
With the winter winds to moan, 

And your kisses fell no longer on her eager, upturned 
mouth. 

But you prayed and pleaded so, 
In your loneliness and woe, 

That they let you come to see her as the springtime came, 
And you lingered by her side, 
Through the golden summer tide, 

Till the mournful autumn shattered all her palaces of 
flame. 

[ 189 ] 



Selected Poems 



And you come to see her still 

When the springtime bowers thrill, 

When the gorgeous summer blossoms on the hill-tops blaze, 

When the tiger-lily blows, 

And the trumpet-flower glows, 

And the golden August harvest glimmers in a mellow maze. 

From the South you flutter forth 

To the grim and gloomy North, 

And you bring the fiery splendors of the tropic noons, 

Bringing dreams of plumy palms, 

Bringing dreams of slumbering calms, 

Where the everlasting summer in delicious languor swoons. 

But when autumn showers come, 
And the blossoms all are numb, 

You must leave the little maiden, whom you love, alone; 
When the winds of winter blow, 
And the fields are filled with snow, 

She must wander, broken-hearted, as the bitter tempests 
moan. 

Oriole, swift oriole, 
So it was with mine own soul 

When the One Love came to greet me with his flags of fire ; 
All was piercing, burning bliss, 
Life was like a clinging kiss, 

And my breast was palpitating with a sweet and strange 
desire. 

Love has brought me days of dole ; 

Love my peace and quiet stole 

When he came with fierce embraces from the fervent 

South, 
When he came from fabled lands, 
And he pressed my trembling hands, 
And I felt the honeyed kisses from his passion-pulsing 

mouth. 

[ 190 ] 



Selected Poems 



Oriole, swift oriole, 
Like a black and smouldering coal, 

Is my heart, that once was burning with a golden glow, 
And the fields of lambent light 
Now are hid in solemn night, 

And my summer's tropic splendors shrouded in December 
snow. 



THE WOOD THRUSH 

Bird of the brown wing and the dotted breast, 

Who dwells in deep woods, cool and dark and green ; 

In dewy, dim retreats he rears his nest, 
By all save barefoot truants left unseen. 

In Spring and Summer, at the dusk and dawn, 
He floods the forest with his liquid trill ; 

At burning noon, in solitude withdrawn, 

The hours doze on while all his songs are still. 

Like rival troubadours, from every spray, 
To all his notes his brethren make reply ; 

They speed the splendid sunrise on his way, 
And chant a requiem when the light must die. 

When morning, like a tulip flecked with fire, 
In scarlet and in orange breaks in bloom, 

Bird answers bird, and in one heavenly choir 
They hail him from their forest-temple's gloom: 

"O day of joy, haste thy nimble feet! 

All earth is happy, like a sweet love-story. 
Come on, come on, where Youth and Pleasure meet, 

To crown thee as thou risest in thy glory!" 

[ 191 ] 



Selected Poems 



When sunset lingers over Western hills 
In ashen purple, like an exiled king, 

Bird answers bird in melancholy trills, — 
Ah me, that song the wild wood-thrushes sing! 

"O perfect day, how soon thy joys shall end! 

Thou wilt return, O never, never, never; 
Far, O how far, thy weary feet must wend ; 

O day of joy, farewell, farewell, forever!" 



THE REDBIRD 
I 

Redbird, Redbird, brave and brilliant, flitting on thy 
wings of flame, 

Tell me, Redbird, shrill and startling, whence thy blood- 
red plumage came? 

Like a scarlet-crested poppy, blazing in the sultry noon, 
Like the frail, enchanted crescent of the crimson setting 
moon; 

Like a spray of fiery tulips, lit by hearts of golden light, 
Like a ruby star arising in the shadows of the night; 

Like the burning blush of sunrise, driving all the dusk 

away, 
Like the sunset's splash of splendor from the bleeding 

heart of day; 

Flaming through the dogwood blossoms, creamy-clustered 
locust trees, 

Swinging on the grape-vine's tendrils, flying with the boom- 
ing bees ; 

[ 192 ] 



Selected Toems 



Mingling with the scarlet trumpets, where the verdant 

creepers twine, 
Flushing like a falling goblet, spilling out its sparkling 

wine; 

Blushing through the cypress branches, through the green 
swamps, cool and still, 

Waking all the emerald shadows with thy sharp and sud- 
den trill; 

Redbird, Redbird, brave and brilliant, flitting on thy wings 

of flame, 
Tell me, Redbird, shrill and startling, whence thy blood-red 

plumage came? 

II 

I was once an Indian maiden, in the dream-years, long 
ago, 

When the red man in these forests first beheld his pale- 
browed foe. 

Then a young knight with his comrades marched within 

our fatherland; 
Never had our simple people seen so bright and brave a 

band ; 

And their leader trod before them, with a gay and gallant 

air, 
With his blue eyes, dark and dreamy, with his clustered 

golden hair; 

With his sweet mouth like a wild rose, and his cheeks in 

boyish bloom, 
With his white brow overshadowed by his helmet's snowy 

plume. 

[ 193 ] 



Selected Toems 



All my people bade him welcome, though their hearts 

were filled with hate, 
And they gave their hands in friendship, but in secret 

planned his fate. 

Yet I often met the stranger, and he kindly spake to me 
In the strange and broken accents of his home beyond the 
sea; 

And I often wandered with him, through the forest, field 

and dell, 
And his sweet and subtle whispers bound me in a blissful 

spell. 

I would tell him mystic legends of our tribe in vanished 

days, 
Names of birds and trees and insects, blossoms budding in 

our ways; 

Habits of the crawling serpent, cunning of the crafty 

fox, 
Of the hare and hawk and squirrel, and the eagle in the 

rocks. 

He would tell me of his people in the realms beyond the 

sea, 
Of their kingdoms and their cities, like a wonderland to 

me. 

So my soul was made his captive, and I longed to follow 

him, 
As a slave beside her master, over lake and mountain-rim. 

Once I stole among our chieftains, slipping like a stealthy 

spy, 
And I heard the painted warriors swearing that my knight 

must die. 

[ 194 ] 



Selected Toems 



Then with bare feet in the midnight, through the dank and 
chilling dew, 

Crawling, cringing, creeping, running, stole the silent vil- 
lage through: 

Then I found my lover sleeping in his quiet tent, near by, 

And revealed to him the secret, that he might not stay and 

die; 
Then I pressed his bounding bosom to my palpitating 

breast, 

Felt his fond farewell embraces, nevermore to be caressed; 

Then I blest him and I kissed him, to our village took 

my flight, 
And I lost my love forever, on that anguish-haunted 

night. 

And he fled from out our forests, baffled all the Indians' 

hate, 
But he left me with my people, left me there to meet my 

fate. 

For the warriors knew me guilty, led me to a lonely woods, 
And they stabbed my burning bosom, till I perished, dyed 
in blood. 

But my lover, false and fickle, never dreamed or cared for 

me, 
Wooed and won a beauteous maiden in his home beyond 

the sea. 

So my ghost is flitting ever, like an autumn leaflet red, 
When the summer suns have faded, and the summer 
blooms have fled. 

So I seek to hide my sorrow, as I flit from tree to tree, 

As the cynic hides his anguish with a hollow-hearted glee. 

So a woman's love, once given, nevermore shall pass away; 
But the jewel, by her lover, soon is trampled in the clay. 

[ 195 ] 



Selected Poems 



THE BLACKBIRDS 

As the blackbirds flit through the tossing trees, 

And the brown leaves float on the mad March breeze; 

As the blackbirds carol and call and call, 

And the dead leaves flutter and fall and fall ; 

My heart is elate with the silver songs, 

And casts care aside like the dead-leaf throngs ; 

Hope burgeons again, and my soul takes wing 

As the blackbirds soar and the blackbirds sing. 

Like a sable cloud in the cold blue sky, 
A-battle with winds, see the blackbirds fly! 
And the gaunt old trees are all young again 
As the vital sap tingles through vivified vein. 
As the dead leaves flit, so my dead fears fall, 
And life leaps again while the blackbirds call ; 
As the March comes back, I'm a- thrill once more, 
And my heart beats high as the blackbirds soar. 



THE SAVANNAH 

We ride through forests ever cool and green, 

Where giant live-oaks join their boughs above, 

All knit together by a thousand vines, 

The trumpet flower, with its blazing blooms, 

Whose martial music flashes into flame, 

The brier, bramble, and the poison oak, 

Like scaly serpents thrusting forth their fangs, 

While spiders, like the Sirens long ago, 

Spread silken snares bedecked with dazzling dew 

To tangle in the feet of foolish flies ; — 

Through treacherous fens, by knotted cypress knees, 

Above the black mould, ever dank and cold, 

[ 196 ] 



Selected Poems 



Burst through by lushy clumps of whitened sprouts, 
Where lies concealed the deadly rattlesnake ; — 
By greenly-mantled ponds, made beautiful 
With multitudes of water lilies white. 

And then a blue lake shimmers in the sun 

Or quivers in the gloomy cypress shades ; 

A gorgeous wild duck floats upon the waves 

With plumage polished like a coat of mail ; 

The snakes are twisted on the rotten limbs 

Of dead trees that have fallen in the lake. 

On yonder logs, the turtles in a line 

Are drying broad backs in the burning sun ; 

The blue jay, like a noisy trooper, calls, 

The redbird flutters like a flower of flame ; 

The gaunt gar, like a Turkish scimitar, 

Leaps from the lake, and circling, sinks from sight. 



THE OLD MANSION 

I see a ghostly ruin of the past, 

And tread its cedar-bordered avenues. 

Around its porticoes the pillars tall 

Stands like a row of trusty sentinels 

Guarding the glories of a perished race 

Amid its desolation and decay ; 

A few tall roses and magnolias stand 

Around a fountain choked with water-weeds. 

See the great rooms, whose mirrored walls are crushed 

And marble mantels now are overthrown. 

My footsteps falling in the haunted halls, 

Seems waking from the dead and dusty years 

The far-off echoes of a hunter's horn 

Blown by the master of a thousand slaves. 

[ 197 ] 



Selected To ems 



Amid the shadows of this archway old 

I see a beauteous, high-born lady stand, 

And hear the rustle of her silken gown ; 

Amid the broken mirrors on the walls 

The softest brown eyes ever seen on earth 

Shine on me from their dewy, dusky depths 

With starry splendors of a tropic night. 

My whisper, stealing through the ruined rooms, 

Brings back the laughter of the yester-years, 

And all the revels of a nuptial night, 

Until the dead bride from her mossy tomb 

Comes treading by me in her robes of white ; 

Amid the cobwebs on the acient stair 

I see the shimmer of her snowy veil, 

The withered orange blossoms on her brow, 

And then, her sweet face swiftly vanishing 

Amid the glimmer of her golden hair. 

THE DUNGHILL AND THE MOON 

Said the Moon one night to the dunghill, "I am better 

by far than you, 
For I am the queen of the heavens, while you are the scum 

and the spew; 
I am throned on a throne of silver, I am wearing a starry 

crown, 
While you reek and you rot and fester in the slums of the 

dirty town. 

"I am type of all that is splendid, and I stand for all that 

is pure, 
While you are the source of the cesspool, and the fount of 

the stinking sewer; 
I am type of all that is noble, and I stand for all that is 

high, 

While you are the imp of uncleanness, the beast that is 

sore to the eye. 

C 198 ] 



Selected Poems 



"I am sung in songs of poets, I am hailed as empress 

sublime, 
While you are the jest of the vulgar, and ;he theme of the 

blackguard rhyme; 
I am hailed by the lips of lovers, as I sail in my silver boat, 
While you, the obscene, the disgusting, make the laugh 

for the ruffian's throat. 

"I am Joy, I am Love and Beauty, I am Glory, Silver and 

Gold, 
While you are the stench and the offal, and you the decay 

and the mould ; 
I am lady beloved of mortals, I am favorite daughter of 

God, 
While you are the shame of creation, and the bastard 

spawn of the Sod." 

But the dunghill answered the scoffer, "It is true that your 

throne is high, 
It is true that your state is splendid, and true I am foul to 

the eye; 
It is true you are gowned in glory, it is true I am poor 

and low, 
It is true you are queen of heaven, with beauty I never 

shall know. 

"But deny as you will, my sister, we are sprung from the 
self -same womb, 

And deny as you will, my sister, we must go to the self- 
same tomb; 

You may call it a lie, my sister, yet we come of the self- 
same clod ; 

You may call it a lie, my sister, yet we serve but the self- 
same God. 



[ 199 ] 



Selected Poems 



"It is true, while I pass to-morrow, you are good for a mil- 
lion years, 

But your day of death is appointed, though you laugh and 
scoff at your fears ; 

In vain are your crown and your sceptre, and in vain are 
your kingdoms vast; 

Like myself, you merely are mortal, and must come to 
your end at last. 

"But, indeed, if your crown is splendid, your heart is but 

sterile and chill, 
Your valleys are treeless and barren, your mountains are 

lifeless and still ; 
You are stony and bleak and forsaken, not a bird seeks 

your blasted heath ; 
Though your crags and your cliffs may glitter, they are 

only the ribs of Death. 

"But I who am butt for your laughter, and I who am stock 

for your scorn, 
Am the cradle of bud and blossom; from my bosom all 

sweets are born. 
In the dunghill slumbers the harvest, all the gold of the 

garnered wheat; 
In the dunghill sleeps all the plenty, all the rich and poor 

man's meat. 

"I am food for the mellow apple, for the fig and the peach 

and plum, 
I furnish the comb and the honey for the bee in his hollow 

gum; 
I have given the lilac perfume, I have given the red to the 

rose, 
The morning-glory out of me blossoms, and the dandelion 

glows. 

[ 200 ] 



Selected Toems 



"I am help to the hand of the sower, I am faithful to hands 

that reap, 
My herbage gives milk to the cattle, and my grass gives 

fat to the sheep ; 
I look on the fields that are fruitless, and lo! they are rich, 

they are good, 
And the barley and corn are rising where the sedges and 

nettles stood. 

"I thrill through the veins of the vineyards, through clus- 
ters of purple and red, 

And they swell with their luscious nectar, and they swoon 
as their sweets are shed; 

I am snow-white bread for the peasant, I am cakes for the 
queen and king, 

Though spurned by the slave and the monarch as a vile 
and an unclean Thing. 

"Though I fester in foul corruption, I am pure in the lily's 
leaves ; 

Though I rise from the rankest of poison, I am sire of golden 
sheaves ; 

Though Death and Decay may attend me, I shall find Res- 
urrection still; 

Though the lowest of all God's creatures, I am true to his 
royal Will." 



THE FALLEN GODS. 

British Museum 

The careless crowds in hurry pass them by, 
The fallen gods who reigned in years of yore ; 

Ah, who would think that gods like these could die, 
Or see their glories fade forevermore ? 

[ 201 ] 



Selected "Poems 



Here Juno dreams with slowly crumbling charms, 
And Hermes trips on slender shattered feet ; 

Here Venus mutely lifts her broken arms, 

Her smile, though half erased, still strangely sweet. 

Here Iris bends with bosom cleft in twain, 
And Proserpina wears a shivered crown ; 

Here Jove, dethroned, longs for his old-time reign, 
Though Cankering crust has gnawed away his frown. 

Here Isis still is hid behind her veils, 

Osiris still is wrapped in quiet sleep; 
Dumb like the other gods, they tell no tales, 

Still jealous of the secret that they keep. 

Half-men, half-bulls, with giant eagle plumes, 
Long-bearded gods of old Assyria stand, 

Colossal shapes dragged from their desert tombs, 
To please the idlers in this impious land. 

Through broken teeth this South-sea idol grins, 
This Hindoo god looks down with hideous scowls; 

Here gods of Congo squat on battered shins, 

With heads of dogs and beaks and claws of fowls. 

O, gods, for you have men and women bled, 

For you mankind has slaved ten thousand years, 

For you were slaughtered mountains of the dead, 
For you we shed an ocean of our tears. 

O, gods, to you we wildly called for aid, 

To you, poor creatures fashioned out of mud; 

No answer! Not a moment's heed you paid, 
Although we gave you rivers of our blood. 

From you have men beseeched for wealth and fame, 
For glory Kings have made your altars red ; 

What folly! From afar you watched the game, 
Then laughing, smote your fawning flatterers dead. 

[ 202 ] 



Selected Toems 



From you have maidens begged their lovers' lives 
Then seen their lovers brought from battle slain ; 

From lips of fathers, mothers, husbands, wives, 
A million million prayers have wailed in vain. 

Whoever begged your blessings found you dumb, 
Whoever craved one glance has found you blind ; 

O, men may call you, but you never come, 
And men may seek you, but shall never find. 

But now your reign is ended. Nevermore 
Will incense rise to greet you at the dawn, 

And never, never on the sea or shore 
Shall you regain the glory that is gone. 

The children laugh to see Mars' shattered limbs, 

The booby tries to spell Apollo's name; 
O fallen gods, who now will chant your hymns, 

And who will fight to save you from your shame? 

And yet, O fallen gods, yours is the doom 
Which living gods must suffer soon or late ; 

Our fables soon shall follow to your tomb, 
And every god we worship share your fate. 

The gods are but our children, not our sires; 

We carve them, pet them, thrust them on the shelves; 
In them we breathe our own dreams and desires, 

And only make an image of ourselves. 

The man who loves his brother, who is free 
From malice, who will stoop to nothing foul, 

Needs not to gloze the gods with flattery, 

And never needs to tremble when they scowl. 



[ 203 ] 



Selected "Poems 



ORCHIDS 

Like blossoms changed to butterflies 
With wings of purple, yellow, brown, 

Or pheasant plumes with ebon eyes 
And soft and clouded silken down. 

Serpents in garnet, gold and green, 
With graceful neck and glossy crest, 

Or humming birds of brilliant sheen, 
With glowing throat and dotted breast. 

Swart, rich-robed princesses, that hide 
In tangled Afric jungle shades; 

Fawn-footed Indian maids that bide 
By wild Brazilian forest glades. 

With flowers such as these, of old 

The witch enwreathed her golden head ; 

They grew in Circe's haunted wold, 
Or oped in dreamlands of the dead. 



THE MOON-FLOWER 

I see the splendor of thy blooms of white, 
Spotless and stainless as a cherub's plume, 

Adorning solemn shadows of the night, 

As though to waste thy glory on the gloom. 

Not like the gorgeous blossoms of the morn, 
In princely purple or in royal red, 

Amid the glories of the sunrise born, 

To wither when their lover, Dawn, lies dead; 

[ 204 ] 



Selected "Poems 



Nor like thy radiant sisters of the noon, 
With burning bosoms blushing in the sun, 

Whose fierce embraces make them sway and swoon, 
Until they perish as the day is done ; 

For they have felt their fervent love returned, 

And all the ardor of a clasp and kiss, 
Have palpitated and have thrilled and burned 

In sweet delirium of the lover's bliss ; 

While thou, pale virgin, pinest all alone, 
A shrouded star, in ghostly robes of white ; 

No lover's kiss thy pearl-pure face hath known 
To make thee pant with passionate delight. 

No brown bee ever comes to taste thy lips, 
No bird will ever sing his songs to thee, 

No sunbeam steals to touch thy tingling tips, 
Thy maiden charms no bridal day shall see. 

And yet, O peerless, pearly, pure moon flower, 

Thy sweet mouth trembles with a strange perfume, 

And thou dost make a heaven of thy bower 

Though no true lover comes to cheer thy doom. 

And so thy tale of love is never told, 

Thy secret dieth with the morning light, 

Though virgin bosoms throb, we call thee cold, 
And see thee die in barrenness and blight. 

And so True Love amid the darkness blooms, 

In silence, desolation — all alone, 
With snow-white splendor lost in mournful glooms, 

And lives and dies unheeded or unknown. 



[ 205 ] 



Selected Toems 



L AMANTE DU DIABLE 

"Woman wailing for her Demon Lover." 

— Coleridge. 

All around me in the darkness, monstrous mountain 

ridges stand, 
Guarding all the haunted pathways to this dim enchanted 

land. 

In the west I see the tatters of the dull and drooping 
clouds, 

Where the faded sunset glories slumber in their gloomy- 
shrouds ; 

And I see the moon's frail crescent near a dewy, diamond 

star, 
Shining from the gates celestial, where the saints and 

seraphs are ; 

But an awful tempest gathers in the perished twilight's 

path 
As a shaggy lion rises, trembling with terrific wrath; 

And the lightnings flash and quiver like the scorpion 

lashes' stings 
Drawing blood from cheeks of demons, flying with their 

routed kings; 

While the thunder bolts gigantic far across the cliffs are 

hurled, 
Crashing like prodigious planets on a wrecked and ruined 

world ; 

And the winds, aroused and startled, moaning in their 

frantic flight, 
Fill my soul with strange forebodings on this horror - 

haunted night. 

[ 206 ] 



Selected Toems 



Once two brothers, deadly foemen, met upon this wrinkled 

wold, 
And within each other's bosoms drove their daggers keen 

and cold; 

And a pair of guilty lovers, hiding in this place of woe, 
At the stake were burned to ashes in the ages long ago; 

And a traitor seeking refuge when this ancient land was 

young, 
By a throng of furious yeomen on this withered tree was 

hung. 

Here I come to meet thee, Satan, ruined king whom I 

adore, 
Thou, my prince, my lord, my master, and mine idol 

evermore ! 

Now I see thee come to meet me, and I rush within thine 

arms, 
While my bosom bounds with passion for thy wild and 

wondrous charms. 

I, the seraph, blest and beauteous, robed in radiant starry 

light, 
With my golden locks encircled with the lilies pearly 

white ; 

I, that soar on swan-like pinions, blossom-bosomed, flower- 
fair, 

I, with eyes like lucid dewdrops, twinkling in the azure 
air; 

I have come to meet thee, Satan, with thy wings of ashen 

gray, 
Seared with sins and seared with sorrows that shall never 

pass away! 

[ 207 ] 



Selected Poems 



With thine eyes so grand and gloomy, raven tresses flecked 

with frost, 
And thy mien so melancholy, hapless Emperor of the Lost ! 

With thy step so proud and princely, as it seems to spurn 

the sod, 
With thy high brow, scarred and blasted by the cruel bolts 

of God! 

I have left the vine-clad vistas and the palms of paradise, 
Where the song-birds sing forever under diamond-tinted 
skies, 

Where the silken, saffron roses swoon with odors rich as 

wine, 
And the sprays of jasmine blossoms through the myrtle 

branches twine, 

Where the crystal fountains bubble under woods forever 

green, 
And the fields are gemmed with glories like a gorgeous 

Eastern queen, — 

Left them all to meet thee, Satan, — left my throne and 

crown and lyre, 
Flying through the myriad systems, past the whirling stars 

of fire! 

Satan, grander than the mountains, with their gloomy 

giant forms! 
Satan, grander than the heavens, with their wild, majestic 

storms ! 

Satan, grander than the ocean, with its vast and solemn 

waves ! 
Satan, grander than the desert, with its withered waste of 

graves ! 

Like a fierce volcano rising with its regal crimson crest, 
Like a weird and wondrous comet, terrifying every breast ! 

[ 208 ] 



Selected Toems 



Let me heal thy wounded visage where the jagged light- 
nings fell, 

Kiss thy worn feet, burned and blackened by the flaming 
dust of hell! 

I have angel wooers, Satan, who can never win my love, 
For my heart was hurled to Hades when they hurled thee 
from above; 

And those angel lovers, Satan, all are most sublimely fair, 
With their gray eyes, soft and saintly, with their waving 
golden hair, 

With their princely eagle pinions, sandals flecked with 

sparkling gems, 
And their broad, majestic foreheads, wreathed with starry 

diadems, 

With their voices sweet and solemn, like the poet kings 

of old, 
As they stand before the Master with their wondrous 

harps of gold. 

And they sing me songs of passion, melting from their lips 

divine, 
And around my clustered ringlets purple lotus blossoms 

twine. 

But I turn from angel faces, come to cheer thee in thy 

doom, 
Kiss the wan, wild star thou wearest in thy forehead's 

mournful gloom. 

So I steal from heights of heaven and the realms of death- 
less day, 
Meet thee in benighted deserts in this lone world far away ; 

Or I wander till I find thee, flying on from zone to zone, 

And I throw mine arms around thee on thine ever-burning 

throne. 

[ 209 ] 



Selected Poems 



A DEFIANICE 

You leave me alone, and you wend your way 
With a face as bright as a springtime day, 
And you seem to think, as our pathways part, 
That my name is erased from your careless heart. 
You say to yourself: "I shall soon forget 
We have ever loved, or have ever met, 
Though his fervent words may have thrilled me so 
In the beautiful years of long ago." 

But you can not forget how you blushed one day, 
When I held your hand as we went our way, 
And you can not forget how I kissed your lips 
And you tingled with joy to your finger-tips. 
You cannot forget how the bluebirds sang 
Till the meadows and fields and wildwoods rang, 
And we laughed with delight in a dream divine, 
When you knew I was yours and that you were mine. 

And you can not forget you loved me then, 
Ere I went sad ways through the world of men ; 
How happy we were in the dear dead years 
Ere the dawn-light died in a flood of tears. 
O no ! You will sigh for the sweet slain past, 
Its heroic hopes, too brilliant to last, 
When life with her frowns has sullied her smiles 
And sundered us twain by a thousand miles. 

Wherever you go, through the whole wide earth, 
Through gloamings of grief, through mornings of mirth. 
Wherever you go, wherever you bide, 
You shall miss one face, close by your side. 
Whenever you tread under skies of spring, 
Whenever you hear the autumn winds sing, 
You will sigh for the lover of years of yore, 
Who left with your youth, to return no more. 

[ 210 ] 



Selected Toerns 



Unless you can say that your soul is dead, 
The past forgotten, and memory fled — 
Unless you can say, in sincerest truth, 
You are glad to have lost the glory of youth ; 
Unless you can feel in your innermost heart 
You rejoice when you see life's summer depart- 
O then, not till then, may your lips declare 
You love me no more, and you do not care. 



LIFE 

I saw a throng of prisoners in a cell, 
Who, one and all, were doomed to die next day. 
Some laughed and shouted in a reckless way, 
Some raved and cursed and swore like demons fell, 
Some sobbed and bade their friends a last farewell, 
Some shuddered in a dream of dull dismay, 
Some ate, some drank, or sat with cards at play, 
Some seemed to hearken to a funeral bell. 

Mine eyes with pity for them filled with tears; 

But they are living just as you and I. 

The prison is this world of fitful fears, 

The prisoners but our doomed humanity; 

Our day is set within a few short years, 

And laugh, or weep, or curse, like them we die. 



IDYL OF SPRING 

Thrushes up there in branches of blossom 
Twitter and trill to swaying of trees ; 

Rose's red heart and lily-bell's bosom 
Tingle with buzzing and boom of bees. 

[ 211 ] 



Selected Poems 



Over the way, where in billows of bloom 
Creamy and pink as a cloud of pearls, 

Apple and peach in loveliness loom, 
Linda goes laughing, my girl of girls. 

Linda, my lass of but sixteen years, 
Glides with grace of a floating flower, 

Stranger to sorrow, untaught in tears, 

Fairest of fays in the bud-scattered bower. 

Standing alone in her frock of white, 

Sprinkled with snows of the plum-tree blooms, 
Stainless and sweet, she is crowned with light, 

Seeming a seraph with folded plumes. 

Pigeons of gray and purple and green, 

Burnished with copper and blue and brown, 

Flutter beside the feet of my queen, 

Swirling and sweeping to touch her gown. 

Treading there, too, is a peacock proud, 
Gaudy with gems like a Hindoo King, 

Spreading his train like a rainbow cloud, 
Switching the grass with his lowered wing. 

Moments flit fast, and my Linda goes 
Out of my sight, and she takes away 

Out of my spring the red of the rose, 
Mirth of my morn, delight of my day. 

May-apples budding beneath her feet 

Chalices lift of whitest of wax, 
Seeming to show that her footsteps fleet 

Left them behind to trace out her tracks. 

Morning may glow like a pearly shell, 

Purple and pink and iris and blue, 
Dangling with dews the sweet-scented dell, 

Linda, my lass, yet I yearn for you. 

C 212 ] 



Selected Toems 



ONE SUMMER 

The thorns upon this world of ours 
Sometimes bud forth in gentle flowers ; 
Where night has made our earth forlorn 
Will rise at last a radiant morn ; 
On this short journey to the tomb 
Some thrilling voice will break the gloom ; 
But Youth and Love, when once passed by, 
Leave all our dearest hopes to die ; 
Their piercing joy and blissful pain 
Once felt, are never felt again. 

A sojourn at a farm in June, 

When fields were fresh and woods in tune, 

When bare existence was a joy 

To me, a fond and foolish boy! 

Ah yes, my dearest dream was done, 

At setting of that summer sun. 

Ah, little modest country maid, 

Doomed with the summer day to fade, 

Too fragile and too fair to last, 

Lost flower of the happy past! 

I see you still beside me here, 

Just as you looked that bygone year. 

Your sweet face smiles within my reach 

Amid pink blossoms of the peach, 

Or wreathed with wild grapes from the wood, 

Your cheeks stained with their purple blood, 

Or rising like a pure, pale flower 

Amid a scarlet poppy bower. 

I see you still with eyes of blue, 
The darkest pansy's deepest hue ; 
Your brown hair gently wavers down 
And glimmers like a copper crown. 

[ 213 ] 



Selected Toems 



A basket on your arm you bear, 
An awkward little bonnet wear ; 
Fresh as the dewy wildwoods green, 
My little sweetheart, and my queen! 

Her goodness warms misfortune's dearth 

And makes a heaven out of earth; 

Singing she cooks the scanty meal, 

Or chatting, turns the creaking wheel. 

With hoe and huge straw hat, she leads 
Destructive war against the weeds, 

Till I, a dapper city clerk, 

Begin to help her with her work, 

And sometimes try to milk her cows, 

Or with her drive them out to browse. 

She tells me names of birds and trees, 
And habits of the honeybees. 
She shows me where blackberries grow, 
And where the pink wild roses blow. 
She sits with me in mossy nooks 
Of sylvan shades and bubbling brooks. 
And then we see the red-bird shy, 
A blazing blossom, flutter by, 
And proudly shake his crimson plumes 
And chirp amid the verdant glooms; 
The brown thrush, of a humbler crest, 
With calm eyes watches from her nest. 
We roam beside the deep green pools 
In which the bullfrog blithely rules 
And leaps among the daffodillies, 
Blue flags and snowy water lilies. 

With her I watch the evening star 
Begin to tremble from afar, 
The moon arising in the night 
And robing all the world in white; 

[ 214 ] 



Selected Toems 



Then, when the mock-bird, sweet and wild,— 
The forest's untamed poet-child, — 
Begins to twitter trills of bliss, 
I snare my sweetheart with a kiss ! 

But Autumn comes with footsteps chilly, 
And slays the blue-bell and the lily; 
The purple and the golden asters wave 
Above the pansy's lonely grave. 
I leave her, and I turn once more, 
To see her waiting at her door. 
And then another look, — the last, 
When dying day is nearly past ; 
Her hands are curved above her eyes 
That watch me like two jealous spies; 
The setting sunbeams light her hair, 
Then leave her standing lonely there; 
She lingers still, until the night 
Shuts her forever from my sight. 

Amid the dust and roar and heat 
That choke the city's crowded street, 
I see her looking to the town 
Across the autumn fields of brown, 
Towards a higher, happier life, 
Than waits the future farmer's wife, 
While heartless fortune holds her down, 
And mates her with a common clown. 

Ah, precious little country girl, 
Who beamed forlorn, an ocean pearl, 
A sweet, low- waving wild wood rose, 
Frail poem in a world of prose ! 

Again I ponder all alone, 

While snowflakes fall and bleak winds moan, 

And hear the tread of restless feet 

Along the city's dingy street, 

[ 215 ] 



Selected Toems 



And yearn to see her face again 
To ease my weary heart of pain, — 
Returning from the Long Ago 
Beyond her silent shroud of snow. 



A STORM IN SUMMER 

The August sun blazed with a blasting heat 

And down on yellow corn-fields fiercely beat ; 

The sky was burning with an ashen blue 

And glaring with the hot beams darting through ; 

The hazy dust was rising everywhere 

And floated slowly on the stifling air. 

All day the katydid chirped sharp and shrill 

And green grasshoppers answered from the hill ; 

Deep in the lushy grass the cricket purred, 

While in the trees all day the locust whirred ; 

All day the dry-flies from the leafy limbs 

Ground forth their sawing, nasal-twanging hymns. 

Sometimes we watched the reapers in the field 
In a long line their flashing sickles wield. 
We hunted for the quail's nest through the wheat 
And found it hidden, quiet, snug and neat; — 
A nest of grass, filled full of snowy spheres, 
Strewn like the grains upon the ripened ears. 
Pure as the pearls that gleam in Indian seas, 
Or milk-white buds upon the locust trees. 

But when noon came, the breeze began to blow 
Delicious coolness through the feverish glow; 
And then from out the west dull clouds arose 
And skimmed along, too restless for repose. 
More clouds began to follow, till they grew 
Darker and broader, while the strong winds blew. 

[ 216 ] 



Selected Toems 



Soon deep-toned thunder echoed from the clouds, 

And sword-like flashes drove the mists in crowds. 

Ah, how delicious to the eager eye 

Where those cool shadows, swiftly drawing nigh! 

It seemed unto the anxious farmer's mind, 

That loftiest music rode upon the wind. 

It seemed as if the God of manly sport 

With horns and hounds had come to hold his court, 

Returned through faded earth to rove at will 

And caper gladly o'er the yellowing hill; 

To shout and laugh amid reviving flowers, 

And drive his baying hounds through forest bowers. 

The clouds grew blacker, till they loomed like night, 
And then the blasts came roaring in their might; 
The ancient elms were swayed from side to side, 
For like a demon did the tempest ride. 
The oaks groaned and their giant limbs were crushed; 
The rafters creaked as by the roofs he rushed. 

And now, upon the mountain's distant side, 
A shroud-like sheet of rain was seen to glide ; 
Then soon the valleys at its feet were crossed, 
And nearer, nearer by, the fields were lost : 
Next, the hard gust came with a mighty stride, — 
The driving rain was scattered far and wide ! 
Yes, here it was at last in all its strength, 
And fast was filling all the country's length ; 
It came as in an overwhelming flood, 
And drenched the meadow, the field and wood. 

All through the storm we nestled on the hay 

That, piled in huge heaps, through the barn-rooms lay; 

The tempest flooded all the roof without, 

And great gusts shook the rafters with a shout. 

Far up above, the mud-flies worked away, 

Building their cells of well-cemented clay; 

C 217 ] 



Selected Poems 



The little wren within her nook peeped out, 
And squeaking mice would slyly skip about ; 
The lithe, slim swallow fluttered on her nest, 
Her chattering fledgelings robbing her of rest. 

At last the rain ceased, and the clouds flew by, 
Showing the dark blue of the dewy sky ; 
Upon the outskirts of the dying storm 
The glorious rainbow reared his regal form ; 
But soon the winds tore down the fragile arch, 
As frosty footsteps through the roses march. 



BY THE SUMMER SEA 

Far in the distance meet the sky and sea, 

And melt together in an azure haze, 
As dim and dreamy as eternity, 

With vast void spaces lost in mellow maze. 

The white-winged ships are flitting far away, 

The white-winged gulls are circling there on high ; 

snowy wings, I long to leave this clay, 
And follow, follow you through sea and sky! 

Warm breezes from the far-off tropics blow, 
The sunlight shimmers on the brilliant beach, 

Until the Eve, with blushes all aglow, 
Is mellow as a pink and yellow peach. 

1 watch the billows with their emerald glooms, 

Forever restless, rushing on and on, 
The breakers beating like an eagle's plumes — 
Wild beings, hunting peace forever gone! 

[ 218 ] 



Selected Poems 



Here, wading with their pink and pearly feet, 
The beautiful barefooted children play; 

Their faces, like their joys, are fresh and sweet — 
Blonde childhood in a blonde midsummer day! 

Their life is laughter, and their love is bliss, 
Free from regret for perished years of yore, 

Their world is one great blossom, youth a kiss, 
Ere storms shall thunder, "Fled forevermore!" 

I watch them, pensive, till the day is done, 
And melancholy twilight follows noon, 

Till, like a blood-red tulip, sinks the sun, 
And like a snow-white lily comes the moon. 



A NIGHT IN JUNE 

Lucy, my sweet, as we went last night 
Down the garden walks in the moon's white light; 
As a startled thrush from the peach trees flew, 
And you plucked a rose that was decked with dew; 
As the mock-bird sang to the evening star 
And the sheep-bells clinked in the folds afar, 
The words that you spoke were sweeter in spell 
Than moonbeams or dews or bird-song or bell. 

Lucy, my own, as the roses blushed, 

As the cannas flamed and the dahlias flushed ; 

As the lily arose in her snowy gown, 

You trembled, my lass, with your eyes cast down. 

Peonies in pink and purple and white 

Were watching your face in the silvery light ; 

They listened and smiled and nodded, my sweet, 

As though they had heard your timid heart beat. 

[ 219 ] 



Selected Poems 



Lucy, my queen, as the dewdrops fell, 

And the whippoorwill called in the tangled dell ; 

As the honeysuckles twined and the honeysuckles trailed, 

And from golden blooms their odors exhaled ; 

Like a king who comes to his rightful throne, 

I clasped you and kissed you, my sweet, my own; 

Then the roses turned in amaze untold 

To think that a lover could be so bold. 

Lucy, my bride, in that ardent kiss 

We were born again, to a life of bliss; 

Yet glory and gladness were blended with gloom, 

And thistle and thorn with the bridal bloom ; 

For we breathed not vows to last for a day, 

But Passion that never should pass away ; 

Our hearts, lives and souls with our hands we gave 

From gardens of youth to gates of the grave. 

Lucy, my life, when the morning came 

With its golden spears and its banners of flame, 
In purple and pearl and orange and red, 

Its dews were not light as my joyous tread. 

For after that morning had passed away, 

And after my locks are sprinkled with gray, 

When lovers unborn by my grave tread alone, 

No night like that night shall ever be known. 

MISSISSIPPI IN JUNE 

The blithe breezes croon through forests of June, 

And the swallows skim on through the sky ; 
Then the goldfinch comes and the wild bee hums, 

While the martins go sailing on high. 
The indigo bird in the hedge is heard 

As he seeks for his sweetheart and sings, 
And the tanagers flush and the redbirds blush 

Like a flurry of tulips with wings. 

[ 220 ] 



Selected Toems 



The cotton-field heaves with its glossy green leaves, 

With its blossoms of crimson and cream, 
While the corn's sharp spears with their juicy ears 

And their tassels of silk are astream. 
The cantaloupe swells, and the cantaloupe smells 

Like a gold-carven casket of musk; 
On the watermelon vine is a flagon of wine 

In the rosy-red heart of the husk. 

The blackberries lush hang ripe on the bush 

Like a gypsy girl's ebon-hued eyes, 
While the strawberry bed is sprinkled with red 

For the barefooted truant's surprise. 
The apricot glows like a yellow rose, 

And the apple a globule of gold, 
While the damson's dark blue and the cherry's red hue 

Stain the beak of the woodpecker bold. 

With pansies a-glow, peonies a-blow, 

Cometh June in her maidenhood sweet, 
And I see her glide where the crape myrtles bide 

With their petals as pink as her feet. 
The magnolia bloom, like an ostrich plume, 

Is a-waving to welcome the queen, 
And the iris rears through its serried spears 

Like a banner through bayonets keen. 

JULY NOONTIDE 

In Oriental Sultan, July comes 

In all the brilliance of barbaric state, 
While bumble bees and locusts beat their drums, 

And shrill grasshoppers at his call await. 

And like Sultanas listening for his tread, 
In gorgeous harems, splendid salvias flame ; 

His marigolds, in yellow and in red, 
Put Sheba and Semiramis to shame. 

[ 221 ] 



Selected Toems 



There, rank on rank, the bright geraniums burn, 

With pungent, sultry, suffocating breath, 
And hardy buff and orange zinnias yearn 

To crown the Master with a gaudy wreath. 

Petunias, garnet-hued and white and pied, 

From dewy trumpets to the Caliph drink ; 
Verbenas, closely clustered at their side, 

Weave him rich rugs in purple and in pink. 

Above the rest, slim oleanders rise 

Like rosy-footed dancers, full of grace, 
And passion flowers with their peacock eyes 

Climb on the wall, enrobed in azure lace. 

The humming-bird, a corsair, flashes by, 
His ruby throat glows like a winged blush ; 

The cockscomb, a muezzin there on high, 
Uplifts his turban, made of crimson plush. 

July strews watermelons by yon fence 

More luscious than mellifluous nectar old, 
Muskmelons with their fragrant frankincense, 

More tempting than Hesperian fruit of gold. 

Dewberries burst with black fermenting juice, 

While over-ripe raspberries fast decay, 
And, like freebooters in a field aloose, 

The hornets suck their sugary sweets away. 

We long to leave this surfeit of perfume, 

This glare of color and this blaze of heat, 
And tread by pools in leafy woodland gloom 

Through dewy grasses, with our cool bare feet. 

There we should see marsh lilies pure and white, 
And feathery ferns o'erhanging silver springs, 

Brooks bubbling through the mint, the grove's green night, 
And pale daturas, wan as mothy wings. 

[ 222 ] 



Selected Poems 



The broad-leaved pawpaws with their green young fruit , 

Blue velvet ageratums by the streams, 
Tall cottonwoods and live oaks dark and mute, 

Would be our comrades, as we dozed in dreams. 

So, when with passion, human hearts may burn, 
And anger chokes the soul with dust and heat, 

To Contemplation's greenwoods we may turn, 
And see her lilies in their cool retreat. 



DROUGHT 

The pale white skies hang in an ashen haze, 
The far-off hills are veiled in faded blue ; 

Dust-clouds obscure the rambling country ways, 
Half hiding teams and wagons straggling through. 

Hour after hour the heat grows more intense; 

An angry wasp drums on the window pane; 
A panting peacock on the old rail fence 

Peeps at the skies as though he prayed for rain. 

An old ox dozes in a weary dream ; 

Long lines of sheep in patient silence pass ; 
Two horses tread a muddy half-dried stream, 

Dust-powdered cattle browse on withered grass. 

The passion-vine is withered at the gate, 

A sickly rose is falling leaf by leaf; 
Sunburned and thirsty, faded asters wait 

For death to bind them in his yellow sheaf. 

The splitted husk flips out its floating down, 
The bursting pod shells out its rattling seeds. 

The pasture is a desert burned to brown, 
The garden is a withered waste of weeds. 

[ 223 ] 



Selected Poems 



O let dark clouds like ocean billows roll, 

Let mellow thunders throb like muffled drums ! 

Let lightnings rouse the west wind's sleeping soul, 
To rush with shouting as the rainstorm comes ! 

And yet this sickly, sweltering August day 
Marks but the place we all must travel soon ; 

This is the end of all the mirth of May, 
And this the ending of the joys of June! 

When all the zest of youth is on the wane, 
We sigh for storm-clouds of the bygone years ; 

The heart cries out in one long prayer for rain 
To fall on parching lids in dewy tears. 

Above my desert bosom, as of yore, 

Once more let lightnings glitter, thunders roll ! 
Drown dusty memories ; let there be no more 

Drought in the heart, or famine in the soul ! 



SEPTEMBER IN TENNESSEE 

The sad September comes with asters in her auburn hair, 
Her lovely face transfigured with a gentle touch of care, 
With pale blue morning-glories, paler than her pale blue 

eyes, 
And pearly hillsides hazes, dimmer than her dreamy skies. 

She comes with cataracts of amber honeysuckles sweet, 

With golden-rods that powder all her garments and her 
feet, 

With humming-birds for heralds, all bedecked in starry 
scales, 

With glow of jeweled armor, burnished throats and twink- 
ling tails. 

[ 224 ] 



I 



Selected Poems 



Amid her forest depths, like white limbed giants in the 

land, 
The clean athletic sycamores in naked grandeur stand; 
And now the sweetgum overflows with aromatic drops, 
While pungent sassafras perfumes the bramble-tangled 

copse. 

Pecans on bending branches hang their wealth of clustered 
nuts, 

And chinquepins and hazels ripen by the negro huts ; 

The brown buckeyes are swelling, purple wild grapes swing- 
ing low, 

And sumach berries by the fence like blood-red torches 
glow. 

But now the year has lost the gladness of her girlhood 

time, 
And prose of homely autumn follows spring and summer 

rhyme ; 
Deserted by the song-birds, hang her melancholy bowers, 
And like a cobweb curtain her deathly-pale moon-flowers. 

The lonesome cat-tails quiver by the marsh's dreary wave, 
And nightshade sprays are rising by the proud peony's 

grave. 
Beneath the summer blossoms that have withered into 

brown, 
Our bygone summer blisses in the dust are trampled down . 

A smothered Desdemona, here the lily hangs her head, 
The iron-weed, a huge Othello, scowling by her bed; 
And, like a ghostly Romeo, calls a lonesome whip-poor-will 
To some forgotten Juliet in her grave on yonder hill. 



[ 225 ] 



Selected Toems 



OCTOBER IN TENNESSEE 

Far, far away, beyond a hazy height, 

The turquoise skies are hung in dreamy sleep ; 

Below, the fields of cotton, fleecy-white, 
Are spreading like a mighty flock of sheep. 

Now, like Aladdin of the days of old, 

October robes the weeds in purple gowns ; 

He sprinkles all the sterile fields with gold, 
And all the rustic trees wear royal crowns. 

The straggling fences all are interlaced 

With pink and azure morning-glory blooms, 

The starry asters glorify the waste, 

While grasses stand on guard with pikes and plumes. 

Yet still amid the splendor of decay 

The chill winds call for blossoms that are dead, 

The cricket chirps for sunshine passed away, 
And lovely Summer songsters that have fled. 

And lonesome in a haunt of withered vines, 
Amid the flutter of her withered leaves, 

Pale Summer for her perished Kingdom pines, 
And all the glories of her golden sheaves. 

In vain October wooes her to remain 
Within the palace of his scarlet bowers, 

Entreats her to forget her heart-break pain, 
And weep no more above her faded flowers. 

At last November, like a Conqueror, comes 

To storm the golden city of his foe ; 
We hear his rude winds, like the roll of drums, 

Bringing their desolation and their woe. 

[ 226 ] 



Selected Toems 



The sunset, like a vast vermilion flood, 
Splashes its giant glowing waves on high, 

The forest flames with foliage red as blood, 
A conflagration sweeping to the sky. 

Then all the treasures of that brilliant state 
Are gathered in a mighty funeral pyre; 

October, like a King resigned to fate, 
Dies in his forests, with their sunset fire. 



SUNSET IN TENNESSEE 

In Tennessee, the ancient mountains stand, 
Guarding the green fields to the far, far west, 

The Mississippi folds her further strand, 
And all her hills and plains and valleys rest. 

In Tennessee, the sunset lingers long, 

Till shades of twilight gather near and far, 

And now is heard the home-bound negroes' song, 
The mock-bird's trill beneath the evening star. 

In Tennessee, the friends I used to know 
Gather in scenes I loved in bygone days, 

By hearthstones where I lingered long ago, 
Before I trod these far-off Northern ways. 

I wonder if those old-time boyhood friends 

Will sometimes wish to see my face once more, 

Or if they miss me when the daylight ends, 
And long to greet me as in years of yore. 

In Tennessee, there is a lass I know, 

Who trod beside me under skies of May, 

Whose coming steps would set my heart aglow, 

Whose smile would make me happy all the day. 

[ 227 ] 



Selected Toetns 



I wonder if she ever feels regret 

For happy moments that she spent with me, 
And longs to see, when suns of Autumn set, 

Her old-time lover, there in Tennesee. 



AUTUMN IN THE SOUTH 

This livelong day I listen to the fall 

Of hickory nuts and acorns to the ground, 

The croak of rain-crows and the bluejay's call, 

The woodman's axe that hews with muffled sound. 

And like a spendthrift in a threadbare coat 
That still retains a dash of crimson hue, 

An old woodpecker chatters forth a note 
About the better Summer days he knew. 

Across the road a ruined cabin stands, 

With ragweeds and with thistles at its door, 

While withered cypress vines hang tattered strands 
About its falling roof and rotting floor. 

In yonder forest nook no sound is heard 
Save when the walnuts patter on the earth, 

Or when by winds the hectic leaves are stirred 
To dance like witches in their maniac mirth. 

Down in the orchard hang the golden pears, 
Half honeycombed by yellow-hammer beaks ; 

Near by, a dwarfed and twisted apple bears 

Its fruit, brown-red as Amazonian cheeks. 

i. p 
The lonesome 1 andscape seems as if it yearned 

Like our own aching hearts, when first we knew 

The one love of our life was not returned, 

Or first we found an old-time friend untrue. 

[ 228 ] 



Selected Toems 



At last the night comes, and the broad white moon 
Is welcomed by the owl with frenzied glee ; 

The fat opossum, like a satyr, soon 

Blinks at its light from yon persimmon tree. 

The raccoon starts to hear long-dreaded sounds, 
Amid his scattered spoils of ripened corn — 

The cry of negroes and the }'elp of hounds, 
The wild, rude pealing of a hunter's horn. 

At last a gray mist covers all the land 
Until we seem to wander in a cloud, 

Far, far away upon some elfin strand 

Where Sorrow drapes us in a mildewed shroud. 

No voice is heard in field or forest nigh 
To break the desolation of the spell, 

Save one sad mocking-bird in boughs near by, 
Who sings like Tasso in his madman's cell; 

While one magnolia blossom, ghostly white, 
Like high-born Leonora, lingering there, 

Haughty and splendid in the lonesome night, 
Is pale with passion in her dumb despair. 

AN AUTUMN MORNING 

A rich October morning, calm and still, 
When saddened skies hang in a dreamy haze. 
The red and yellow leaves dance in the light, 
Arraying every hill in regal robes. 
The flocks of squirrels gather ripening nuts, 
The luscious wild grapes in blue clusters cling, 
And bright woodpeckers whisk amid the leaves. 
The dry broom-sedge grows over wasted fields, 
Fringing red gullies and rough banks of clay ; 
Along the highway and meadows brown 
The golden-rods and asters are ablaze. 

[ 229 ] 



Selected Poems 



Here stands a planter's house amid his farms 

Of snowy cotton and of golden corn, 

Specked here and there by low-roofed negro huts, 

Whose dusky denizens in fleecy fields 

Sing with a sweet mysterious melody 

The songs of Salem in this western world 

With all the fervor of its ancient bards. 

Far, far above, amid the dreamy skies 

The buzzard glides on still and stately wings, 

While birds of passage, in a blending line 

Fly from the far north to the southern seas. 

A MISSISSIPPI SWAMP 

Here in this sultry Summer afternoon 

The white light through the shade seems gloomy green ; 
Here lies, all motionless, the long lagoon, 

Through twilight where no sun is ever seen. 

What lonesomeness, what weight of solitude! 

As solemn as those far primeval days 
When earth was teeming with a giant brood, 

Still unprofaned by man's intrusive gaze. 

Huge turtles bask by yonder sluggish lake, 
A hoarse bull-frog is croaking on the bank, 

And like a jeweled necklace swings a snake 
From dead limbs where a fallen cypress sank. 

Here like a shipmast rooted in the soil, 

A sycamore defies the future gales ; 
Gigantic grape-vines, twisting coil on coil, 

Have weaved his cordage and his mighty sails. 

A scarlet splash of color, here and there 

The trumpet-blossom's flag is all aflame ; 
Beside this stream, the cardinal flowers glare 

Like eyes of tigers none can ever tame. 

[ 230 ] 



Selected Toems 



Here a magnolia with resplendent buds 

Seems a green billow strewing peerless pearls, 

Or bearing flocks of swans on emerald floods, 
A-flutter in a maze of snowy swirls. 

The sluggish waters, green with curdled scum, 

Are glorified by lilied robes of white — 
Lilies so pure, so lovely, that they come 

Like myriad moons in some enchanted night. 

The purple bunting that is glinting by 

Seems like a pansy that can soar and sing; 

The scarlet tanager that flutters nigh 

Seems like a poppy warbling on the wing. 

The redbird, like a crimson shooting star, 

Burns on the vision with a blaze intense; 
And, like two jeweled daggers, from afar 

Two humming birds pierce through the shadows dense. 

The yellow-hammer for a moment glints, 

A golden-breasted, dotted Autumn leaf; 
The oriole, in black and orange tints, 

Glows through the greenwood like a flaming sheaf. 

The hermit-thrush, that forest Hamlet, sings, 

Asking the old, old questions, ever new, 
Yet still unanswered by created things, 

And hid forever out of mortal view. 



TO A FRIEND 

Tormented sorely by the chastening rod, 
I muttered to myself: "There is no God!" 
But, faithful friend, I found your soul so true, 
That God revealed Himself in giving you. 

[ 231 ] 



Selected "Poems 



"I LOVE THY FAULTS' • 

I love thy faults. If angels said to me, 

"We give thee power to change her at thy will," 

My heart, forever loyal unto thee, 

Would leave thee as thou art, my darling, still. 

If, like a sculptor in the days of old, 

My hands might mould a form and face divine, 
Mine eyes would turn from all their beauty cold, 

And see no sweet face in the world but thine. 

If I should tread through blest abodes above, 
And win the love of angels wondrous fair, 

My soul would fear their chill perfection, love, 
And then return, thy lowly lot to share. 

If thou hast faults, my creed shall make them right; 

I love thee only, and I ever will. 
If thou art lowly, yet thy hut is bright — 

If heaven disown thee, I shall claim thee still. 



MARY OF JONESBURG 

O beautiful Mary of Jonesburg town, 

With your dusty locks and your eyes of brown, 

You come like a breath of the country air 

From the cotton- and corn-fields over there, 

In the good old hills of West Tennessee; 

So blithesome and bright, so fresh and so free, 

As the queen of bells I vote you a crown, 

O beautiful Mary of Jonesburg town. 

Mary of Jonesburg, I can see there still 
The Methodist church on the old green hill ; 
Then the wood where the redbird rears his crest, 
And the fence where the bluebird builds his nest. 

[ 232 ] 



Selected To ems 



I see the school-house in the field of sedge, 
And the old saw-mill on the village's edge 
Where the Democrats come from the country down 
To carry the box of your Jonesburg town. 

Mary of Jonesburg, though your frock be plain, 
You never know need of a sweeping train. 
Your laughter, as light as a cat-bird's call; 
Your sighing, as soft as a peach-bloom's fall; 
Your cheeks, as ruddy as apples in June, 
Have thrilled my old heart-strings back into tune. 
No duchess so fair in her silken gown 
As beautiful Mary of Jonesburg town. 

Mary of Jonesburg, here in New York town 
I long for your smile and your eyes of brown. 
Though free-silver rules in the Jonesburg fold, 
Your heart, I am sure, is a heart of gold. 
Though I see Wall Street, or on Broadway tread, 
I find your enchantments have turned my head, 
And my heart steals back, to be there cast down 
At the feet of Mary of Jonesburg town. 



THE FIRST TRANSGRESSION 

Eve, sweet tempter, lovely sinner, God hath cursed the 

deed which thou hast done, 
Paradise is lost forever, and the stricken world's woes 

have begun. 

Over Eden's eastern mountains flame the purple glories 

of the morn, 
Welcomed by the waking warblers and the dewy blossoms 

newly born. 

[ 233 ] 



Selected Poems 



But I see the leaflets trembling, and I hear the quivering 

breezes sigh, 
Feeling that for thy transgression thou and I and all the 

world must die. 

Yet a spirit whispers to me that to save the world 'tis not 

too late, 
If I turn my heart against thee, sin not, and desert thee 

to thy fate. 

Then the fleeting years would scatter pallid autumn lilies 
on thy tomb, 

I, thy consort, live forever, radiant with inmortal youth- 
ful bloom. 

Then mayhaps the great Creator would another woman 

mould for me; 
I might twine her locks with roses, give her kisses that I 

once gave thee. 

But I could not, wondrous being! for thy smiles and wist- 
ful, pleading tears 

Still would follow, hunt and haunt me through the maze 
of never-dying years. 

Twilight shades would find me ever lying by the bride I 

could not save, 
And the piping birds at morning still would find me weep- 
ing at thy grave. 

Earth would be a barren kingdom when, without my queen , 

to rest I stole, 
Life eternal, bitter anguish, if I lost the idol of my soul. 

Thou hast conquered, sweet enchantress! I forsake the 

fields of Paradise 
For thy bosom's realm of rapture and the blissful glory of 

thine eyes. 

[ 234 ] 



Selected Poems 



It is done! I see the tiger, maddened, eyes ablaze, come 
creeping hither! 

It is done! The birds cease singing, and our glorious gar- 
den bowers wither! 

So my sons shall ruin empires, cast away their honor, 

treasures, fame, 
Sink to hell and turn from heaven, when a woman bids 

them share her shame. 



GERALDINE GRAY 

Geraldine Gray, by your ruined home 

The negroes build huts and the gypsies roam; 

The cattle browse there by its quiet streams, 

And the truant treads with his school-boy dreams; 

In its gnarled old elms the woodpeckers call, 

And its rotting plums and apricots fall ; 

The lilies decay in its shattered urns, 

And overgrown weeds choke the fountain's ferns. 

Geraldine Gray, on your lonesome grave 
The brambles entwine and the grasses wave ; 
The roses that grew by your headstone low 
Have withered and died in the long ago, 
While the marble wreath and the marble cross 
Are cankered and green and mottled with moss. 
Birds sing overhead, but they do not care 
For the beautiful being who slumbers there. 

Geraldine Gray, in the years of yore 
You have loved me much, but ambition more; 
You sought to restore the fortune and fame 
Of your falling house and your old-time name ; 

[ 235 ] 



Selected Poems 



You sought after wealth, but I had no gold 
To bring back the pride, the pleasures of old. 
You watched your old home in its slow decay ; 
For its sake you were false, O Geraldine Gray. 

Geraldine Gray, when you broke your vow, 
I whispered to you, "How I hate you now! 
I will tread far lands, I will gather gold, 
I will harden my heart, be crafty and cold ; 
I will sweat and starve, I will stint and save, 
All dangers will dare, all buffets will brave. 
I will then return, and will laugh to see 
How you long, too late, to return to me!" 

Geraldine Gray, through sun after sun 

I digged and I toiled till the fight was won ; 

And so from afar in that stranger land 

I brought all the gold a prince could command. 

Then I came to look in your face once more, 

In triumph, revenge, for the wrongs of yore; 

But at length, as I reached your ruined hall. 

I staggered aghast, and I knew it all. 

Geraldine Gray, at whatever cost, 
You had vowed to win, but at last you lost. 
You plotted, you schemed, every art you tried; 
Defeated, heart-broken, despairing, you died. 
And then, as the mist crept over the lea, 
As the moon, like a ghost, rose over the sea, 
As the chill dank dews in your churchyard lay, 
I knew I still loved you, Geraldine Gray. 



[ 236 ] 



Selected "Poems 



WILL YOU LOVE ME STILL? 

Dear heart, I can not spare thee from my side, 
I look to thee when wrecked and tempest-tost, 

O thou still faithful when my hopes have died, 
Friend of the fallen, lover of the lost. 

Though Sin hath bound me, wilt thou break the snare? 

Though glooms may gather, wilt thou bide with me? 
And though Dejection lures me to his lair, 

Wilt thou, O true love, come to set me free? 

Like hapless Norma in her dark despair, 

Seeking to slay her gold-haired girls and boys, 

My soul had raised its deadly dagger there, 
To pierce the bosom of its old-time joys. 

But thou like David with his soothing strains, 
Coming to calm the stormy soul of Saul, 

Canst quell the tempest of my poignant pains, 
Till rainbow gladness arches over all. 

When foemen gather I will feel no fear, 

Though sorely tempted and though sorely tried, 

If thou wilt whisper, "Courage, courage, dear! 
Remember, true heart, I am by thy side!" 

Ah, thou shalt ease me of my weight of woe, 
My one true hope when other hopes are dead ; 

Ah, thou shalt be my Northern Star aglow, 

The one true friend when other friends have fled. 

Come quickly, like a brave Joan of Arc, 

My shattered banners in the breeze to fling, 

To bear a torch of courage through the dark, 
And win the lost crown for your ruined King. 



[ 237 ] 



Selected Toems 



THE MORNING-GLORY 

Morning-glory, morning-glory, 
Fragile as a fairy story, 

Robed in gowns of purple and of white and red, 
Diademed with dew, 
There are none so fair as you, 

Empress of the world of blossoms ere the youth of day is 
dead. 

Lovely handmaid of the morning, 

Lowly earthly scenes adorning, 

An enchran tress who is peerless and is proud, 

Decked in brilliant blooms, 

Like the silks of Tyrian looms, 

Or the oriental splendors of a spangled sunrise cloud. 

But amid the noonday splendor 
Fade away your bosoms tender, 
As the dewdrops vanish from your feverish face ; 
So you pant and pine, 
Ere the dazzling day's decline, 

Losing all your glow of color and your gladsomeness and 
grace. 

So I ponder and remember 
In a green and gold September, 
I have seen a maiden fair and frail as you ; 
But she drooped and died, 
As you perish in your pride, 

For the blithest and the brightest vanish with the morning 
dew. 

Morning-glory, morning-glory, 

From her tombstone old and hoary, 

Do your dying blossoms go to meet her there? 

[ 238 ] 



Selected Poems 



There in marvelous morn, 
Plucking roses with no thorn, 

In the empire of the angels, does she heed my heart's 
despair? 

So I bless you now, and kiss you, 
Tell her, "Darling, how I miss you! 
If in heaven you are treading, sweet, to-day, 
Does your bosom thrill 
When you hear I love you still, 

And are you still faithful, sweetheart, to your lover far 
awayr 



BRIDAL BALLAD 

Two roses nestling in one blissful bower, 
Two dewdrops in the bosom of a flower, 
Two sweet birds singing songs of deep delight, 
Two stars that meet in glittering fields of night, 
Two roseate clouds that mingle far above, — 
Such is the union of the souls that love ! 

With pearly treasures gathered from the sea, 
Or starry gems from desert Araby, — 
With golden heaps from India's wondrous caves, 
Brought to their master by a thousand slaves, 
The owner turns from that for which he strove, 
And feels but poor without some one to love. 

May all your sorrows be but April showers 
To deck your pathway in a wealth of flowers ; 
And never may your cheeks with pining pale ; 
May noons and nights flit like a fairy tale; 
May youth, all glorious with his old-time fire, 
Lead ever through your land of Heart's Desire! 

[ 239 ] 



Selected Poems 



THE BACHELOR 

Old friend, you ask me why, on this November night, 
When every home is filled with life and love and light, 
I sit there lonely in this desolated room, 
Beside this dying fire, and in this gathering gloom? 

Yes, it is glorious on this gay Thanksgiving Night, 
To look into those homes, so happy and so bright, 
And sweet to see the loving eyes, the faces fair, 
To hear the pattering feet of little children there. 

Yes, it is true, I often long to steal away 
From out the shadows of these dismal walls of gray ; 
But as I light my pipe, its smoke-wreaths pinions take, 
And gazing in that smoke, a thousand dreams awake. 

So I am not alone, although you smile at me, 

And in this dingy place no friendly face you see ; 

For in the darkness beckon airy spirit hands, 

And wandering with them I am borne to wondrous lands. 

And now I see a nook with overhanging bowers, 
Bedecked in sunshine and a wealth of summer flowers ; 
I hear the bubbling brook, I hear the lowing herds, 
I hear the singing of a thousand blissful birds. 

And in the leafy lanes I see a little face, 
Upon whose cheek no sin or sorrow shows a trace ; 
Fresh as a blossom jeweled with the dews of morn, 
Pure as a young dove in the leafy branches born. 

Her eyes are darker than the purple pansies there, 

Her laughter lighter than the bird-songs in the air ; 

Her cheeks are softer than the peach tree's clustering bloom, 

Her lips are sweeter than the lilac's frail perfume. 

And there we tread in joy, with violet skies above, 
With humming bees, and birds that carol lays of love. 
Her golden hair has snared me in a maze of bliss ; 
Earth fades and heaven descends around us as we kiss. 

[ 240 ] 



Selected Poems 



Another vision comes: I see her lying still, 
With snowy blossoms in her waxen fingers chill. 
Her sweet pale little face, that never knew a cloud, 
Is mantled round with silken foldings of the shroud. 

Another vision still: I see a new-made grave, 
Above whose clouds November's wild winds madly rave, 
With snowflakes falling at the wave of wizard wands, 
While leafless branches moan and wring their withered 
hands. 

But all those phantoms vanish now, and so I'm here, — 

A dull old bachelor, all grizzled, gray and sere; 

And that is why I sit and smoke my pipe alone, 

Or watch the dying embers on my dim hearth-stone. 

For when the curling whiffs of feathery smoke arise, 
From out their shadowy depths, I see her love-lit eyes; 
And when I watch the embers in the ashes there, 
I see the gleaming of her wondrous golden hair. 

And though for home and wife and childrens' laugh I yearn, 

With her my heart was buried, never to return; 

And though on earth I still see many a lovely face, 

No angel from the skies could take that lost one's place. 



"SCORN NOT THE HEART" 

Scorn not the heart which may be proffered thee, 

For burning love may change to burning hate. 

When Summer pineth in her queenly state, 

The wan, wild Autumn in her path shall be, 

Blighting her blossoms as her footsteps flee; 

When Day's white wings fade through her golden gate, 

The shadows gather in the gloaming late, 

And shroud her splendors in the solemn sea ; 

[ 241 ] 



Selected Toems 



When through the tropic forest's noonday warm 
The waking blasts invade the gorgeous bowers, 
Their glories perish in the furious storm ; 
While selfish Life holds revel through the hours, 
He starts at last to see Death's awful form 
Creep, cold and cruel, through the fading flowers. 



EDITH ADAIR 

Edith Adair, as I went to-day 

Down the long green lane, through the wildwoods gay, 

By the hawthorn hedge, with its buds of white, 

And the old oak tree on the breezy height ; 

As I walked through fields where the blackberries grow, 

And the pink peach blooms from the orchards blow, 

When songs of the thrush were loud in the air, 

I remembered you ever, Edith Adair. 

Edith Adair, I remember still 

The long green lane and the oak on the hill ; 

I remember the songs and skies of Spring, 

And the pink peach blooms, the birds on the wing; 

I remember the thrushes in boughs above, 

Who listened like you, to my words of love; 

I remember the flush of your face so fair 

When you said that you loved me, Edith Adair. 

Edith Adair, that was long ago, 
Ere youth and ere love lost their gladsome glow ; 
You said you were true, but turned at last, 
And left me to brood on the perished past. 
The hawthorn hedge is as lovely as then, 
The thrush sings as sweet in the dewy glen, 
The sky is as blue, the flowers as fair, 
But you have forsaken me, Edith Adair. 

[ 242 ] 



Selected Poems 



Edith Adair, as you pass me by 

With a haughty brow and averted eye, 

You scorn the poor lover of long ago 

Who plods the rough road with his footsteps slow 

As you ride away in your silken gown, 

As the diamonds flash in your tresses brown, 

You taunt me with gold and with jewels rare — 

The price of your perfidy, Edith Adair. 

Edith Adair, you can not forget 

The peach trees' blooms on the day that we met; 

How, when under Springtime skies of blue, 

You promised your lover to still be true ; 

You can not forget that under the moon, 

With the buds and blooms and the mock-bird's tune, 

I gathered you close in my strong arms' snare, 

And I kissed you, and kissed you, Edith Adair. 

Edith Adair, though my soul may pine, 
While your hand is his, your heart is yet mine; 
Though you hide your thoughts with a woman's skill, 
I know — yes, I know — that you love me still! 
Though you laugh and laugh in pretended glee, 
I know that your heart turns ever to me ; 
You remember all, you sigh with despair; 
For you can not forget me, Edith Adair! 

TO ONE I SHALL SEE NO MORE 

Come, let me look once more close in your eyes, 
Come let me feel the beating of your heart; 

Our time has ended ; we must break the ties ; 
God knows I love you, but we two must part. 

Nay, do not ask me why I turn away, 
And why these words at parting seem so cold ; 

Nay, precious, do not sigh and beg me stay; — 
Our dream must be a story left untold. 

[ 243 ] 



Selected Toems 



Ah, ere you came, the dead leaves hid my soul, 
My heart was buried in a shroud of snow; 

Then, like the Spring across the waste you stole, 
And made the birds sing and the blossoms blow. 

How sweet you were, O precious, when you came 
To let me know my soul had found its mate ; 

My autumn skies were flushed with vernal flame — 
And then I saw the warning face of Fate ! 

Come, clasp me once before I turn to go, 

Heed not these tear-drops as I kiss your feet ; 

How sweet my dreams were, you shall never know, 
How blissful, blissful, yet how fleet, how fleet! 

Nay, do not blame me, it is best — is best! 

Forget me, though you take away my heart; 
There! see, I laugh, and turn it to a jest — 

God knows I love you, but we two must part. 



"TO ONE WHO SHALL BE NAMELESS" 

Do you sometimes think, as you pass me by, 
That I follow your steps with a stifled sigh? 
Do you sometimes think as you fade from view, 
That my heart is broken for the loss of you? 

Will you think of me when the autumn blight 
Shall sully my soul in the long years' flight, 
When over my life, with its weight of woes, 
Shall flutter the flakes of the winter snows? 

Will you think of me in the fading light, 
Will you think of me in the solemn night, 
When the songs of spring and summer blooms 
Are still and asleep in their lonely tombs? 

[ 244 ] 



Selected Poems 



Will you think of me when my hopes have fled, 
Will you think of me when my heart is dead, 
Will you think of me when my locks are gray, 
And the light of my life has passed away? 

Will you think of me when the azure skies 

Are shrouded in gray, like my eager eyes, 

When the wailing winds the blossoms blow through, 

Like the hapless rhymes that I write to you? 

Will you think of me when your wedding bell 
Shall fall on my ear like a funeral knell, 
When from me to another your steps depart, 
And leave me alone with my aching heart? 

Will you think of me on your wedding night, 
While treading the aisle in your veil of white, 
When the music swells and the soft lights shine, 
And the bridal blooms in your tresses twine? 

Will you think of me when you come at last 
To regret your choice in the bitter past, 
And know that I loved you far more than he, 
When a great gulf severs your soul from me? 

Then come back to me, my darling, my sweet, 
With your gladsome face and your footsteps fleet, 
With your springtime joys and your summer state, 
Before we can say, "Too late, too late!" 



[ 245 ] 



Selected Toems 



SOUTHERN LOVE SONG 

Lucy, my lass, when the jasmine blows, 

And the dogwood decks in his blossomy snows ; 

When the daffodil's flag in the breeze unfurls, 

And the cherry is flecked with a frost of pearls ; 

When the redbird soars and the buebird sings, 

And the buff meadowlark through the broomsedge wings ; 

When the tanager flits like a flame above, 

I think of you ever, my lassie, my love. 

Lucy, my lass, in the summer's heat, 
When the sun-rays flash in the golden wheat ; 
When I hear the call of the far-off quail ; 
When I see the swirl of the scythe and flail ; 
When the cricket chirps in the long lush grass, 
And the zinnia glows like a shield of brass ; 
When the blue haze hangs on the dreamy hill, 
My Lucy, my lassie, I am faithful still. 

Lucy, my lass, when the asters shine, 

And the muscadine hangs on its glossy vine ; 

When the golden-rod sets all the fields afire, 

And the sad wind sighs like a lover's lyre; 

When the sumach robes in velvet of red, 

And the purple and gold of the woods are shed ; 

When the south-winged cranes fleck the evening sky, 

My lassie, my Lucy, I wish you were nigh. 

Lucy, my lass, when the snowflakes come, 
And the blooms are dead and the birds are dumb ; 
When forest and fields are sullied with blight, 
And the chill clouds spread in the winter night ; 
When the youth and joy of the year have sped, 
And its royal hopes and its dreams have fled, 
You come unto me like a darling dove, 
And I welcome you gladly, Lucy, my love. 

[ 246 ] 



Selected Poems 



THE LORE OF LOVE 

I 

When do I love thee? When the brooklets run 
Through dandelion meadows of the June; 
When horns of huntsmen greet the harvest moon, 
And mellow autumn's vintaging is done; 
When Spring's triumphant marches have begun, 
When Winter winds through haggard branches croon ; 
At solemn midnight and at silvery noon, 
At blush of morning and at set of sun. 

Thy youthful splendor unto me is dear, 

But I shall love thee still when youth flits by; 

I love thee when thine eyes know not a tear, 

And love thee when Disaster hovers nigh ; 

My soul shall crave thee when the Dark draws near, 

And still be loyal through eternity. 

II 

How do I love thee? As the slender lyre 
Thrills with emotion when the breezes blow; 
As roses love the morning's golden glow, 
As dewy stars the dusky night desire; 
As eagles to the heaven of heavens aspire, 
As dove dreams fondly, breast to breast below ; 
As arctic pines love everlasting snow, 
As tropic palms love everlasting fire. 

I love thee as the victor loves his wreath, 
The peasant loves his cottage, free from strife; 
I love thee as Mortality loves breath, 
The shepherd boy his harp and flute and fife ; 
As disappointed Hope loves welcome Death, 
As human souls love Everlasting Life. 

[ 247 ] 



Selected Toems 



in 

Why do I love thee? Ask the artist there 
Why does he love fair faces that he paints ; 
Ask of the poet why his spirit faints 
Before his heroines of the golden hair; 
Ask of the singer, why his sweet despair, 
His glorious gladness, his melodious plaints; 
Ask the young priest, before his haloed saints, 
To lay the secret of his worship bare. 

I love thee; for I long to soar from sod, 

And tread in glory of celestial grace ; 

To live beyond the time my grave is trod, 

Proving a crown-prince of immortal race ; 

To emulate beatitudes of God, 

To reach His kingdom, and behold His face. 



HE WHO HATH LOVED 

He who hath loved hath borne a vassal's chain, 
And worn the royal purple of a king; 
Hath shrunk beneath the icy winter's sting. 
Then reveled in the golden summer's reign ; 
He hath within the dust and ashes lain, 
Then soared o'er mountains on an eagle's wing; 
A hut hath slept in, worn with wandering, 
And hath been lord of castle- towers in Spain. 

He who hath loved hath starved in beggar's cell, 

Then in Aladdin's jeweled chariot driven; 

He hath with passion roamed a demon fell, 

And had an angel's raiment to him given ; 

His restless soul hath burned with flames of hell, 

And winged through ever-blooming fields of heaven. 

[ 248 ] 



Selected "Poems 



THE SWAN OF THE SLUMS 

Alone in the depths of the grimy town 
I hasten along as the sun goes down ; 
Strange jargons I hear, strange faces I meet 
In the motley crowds of the swarming street. 
By the loathsome dives, by the dismal dens, 
Where the castaways throng in their festering fens, 
Where the reeking slums like a cancer spread, 
I am sick of heart and dizzy of head. 

Hovels on hovels in the byways scowl, 
Blister on blister through the alleys foul! 
Here the peddler yells and the fakir shrieks, 
And the footpad lurks, the shoplifter sneaks. 
Here the burglar scowls and the ruffian skulks 
In the cellars and stairs of the rotting hulks; 
Here the knife-grinder goes with his bells a-ring, 
And the wounded thief with his arm in a sling. 

Here the venders stand with their butter and eggs, 

And their pungent cheese and their mackerel kegs; 

Here are cheap junk stores, here are baker shops, 

Where the beggar, half-starved, turns a-gazing, and stops, 

Here alone at last, in the reeking slums, 

As the daylight dies and the darkness comes, 

A girl I behold, who is wondrous fair, 

With her white-rose face and bright brown hair. 

O maiden so pure, so lovely, so white, 

As you stand alone in the coming night, 

How came you, my child, in your peerless grace, 

To the shame and sin of this putrid place? 

Around you, the dark is a dismal pall, 

But in heart and soul it is darkest of all; 

O damsel so fair, by what demon spell 

Have you sunk so low, in these dens to dwell? 

[ 249 ] 



Selected Poems 



In another life, and in perished hours, 

A lady, you reigned in your castle towers ; 

Love brought you his bliss and pierced you with pain 

As a princess there in the courts of Spain. 

You have made kings bleed, made the kingdoms quake, 

While the heroes fought and fell for your sake ; 

In another life, like a strange romance, 

You have lived and died as the queen of France. 

But you rose from your dusty tomb, 

And this, lovely child, is your dreadful doom; 

And you come like a dream on your delicate feet 

To tread through the mud of this loathsome street. 

So, marvelous maid, you are here from afar, 

A lily, a dove, a swan, and a star; 

And the maiden moon in the sky looks down 

On the maiden moon in the grimy town. 

MARTYRDOM 

The martyr need not perish by the gallows, at the stake, 

or cross-tree high ; 
For often it is nobler and is braver for his creed to live 

than die. 

"WHEN THOU ART NEAR" 

When thou art near, when thou art near! 

Life seems so sweet beside thee, dear. 

I seem to touch an angel's wing, 

I feel her arms around me cling ; 

Within my heart a lily blooms 

And glimmers through the mournful glooms ; 

Peace, like a white dove, nestles there, 

And soothes my deep and dumb despair, 

When thou art near. 

L 250 ] 



Selected Toems 



But when, O Love, thou art not near, 
I shudder with a nameless fear; 
I sit my lonely hearth beside, 
Where Anguish and Despair abide ; 
I ponder in the solemn gloom, 
And tremble at some coming doom, 
I feel Temptation stealing nigh, 

While Sin and Sorrow hover by, 

And thou not near ! 

When thou art near, when thou art near! 
Return and save, O save me, dear! 
Thou knowest I am weak indeed, 
And how thy helping hand I need. 
See how the shadows gather near, 
And beckon thee to leave me, dear! 
O come to me, refuse me not! 
Then I may bless my hapless lot 

When thou art near, 

When thou art near! 



TEMPTED 

Wilt thou feel no pang of pity as I turn with tears to thee? 
Ah, desist, thou darling Tempter, loose thy grasp and set 
me free! 

In thine eyes I see the fury and the frenzy of desire, 
Till my pulses thrill my bosom and my heart and soul with 
fire. 

So I dare not spurn or scorn thee, so I dare not turn to 

fly, 

And my feverish soul is longing in thine eager arms to die. 

[ 251 ] 



Selected Poems 



As the sparrow sees the serpent coiling close around her 

nest 
Till the spell-bound mother flutters faintly on his jeweled 

crest : 

As the terror-stricken traveler in the desert's devious ways 
Sees a tiger crouch before him with his cruel eyes ablaze : 

As the fated youth sits gazing at the goblet's purple rim 
And behold his wreck and ruin rising in the future dim: 

As the numb, enchanted dreamer sees the nightmare draw- 
ing near 

When his lips are dumb with horror and his feet are chained 
with fear: 

So I see thee, sweetest Tempter, snare me in thy fearful 

charms, 
While I dare not shrink or struggle, but must sink within 

thine arms. 

Ah, what joy, what bliss enchanting, soon to droop with 

blast and blight! 
Ah, what brilliant blooms of morning, soon to perish in 

the night! 

Now Remorse is faintly calling, dimly calling in mine ears, 
Far away from days of childhood, far away through realms 
of tears! 

As the horn of Roland sounded, far across the mounts and 

vales, 
While his comrades, leagues beyond him, faintly heard its 

piteous wails ; 

As his myriad foemen slew him when no comrade's aid 

was nigh, 
So Remorse, at bay, surrounded, soon must fall to dust, 

and die. 

[ 252 ] 



Selected Poems 



Now I see far in the future gathering hosts of deadly woes, 
See my springtime blossoms perish in the chill white 
winter snows; 

See my old friends all forsake me, see them laugh to hear 

my name, 
See my mother's awful anguish, see my father curse my 

shame ; 

See me sinking lower, lower, sinking, sinking lower down, 
In the night-time, homeless, friendless, wandering through 
the wicked town. 

And I see thee, cruel Tempter, laughing at my loving 

trust ; 
See thee turn the traitor, Tempter, see thee hurl me in the 

dust. 

But thy fearful fascination chains me in thine eager arms, 
And I strive in vain to rouse me from thy fell and fateful 
charms. 

So I turn from all the glories of the blest abodes above, 
That my soul may share the blisses of thy baleful, blasting 
love. 

So I turn from home and hearthstone, father, mother, 

comrades, all, 
So I cease to struggle, Tempter, and I waver, and I fall. 



THE RESURRECTION 

I have watched and I have waithed through the flight of 

months and years, 
I have watched and I have waited through a world of 

doubts and fears. 

[ 253 ] 



Selected Poems 



Loving you through vernal vistas, when the Easter lilies 
rose, 

Loving you when chill December scattered swirls of flutter- 
ing snows; 

Loving you when stately Summers reaped their wealth of 

golden sheaves, 
Loving you when mournful Autumns wove their crowns of 

withered leaves; 

Loving you amid the shadows of the melancholy night, 
Loving you amid the carols of the birds at morning light. 

But I lost you, and I heeded not their glory or their gloom, 
For my loyal heart was buried in the shadow of the tomb ; 

And it crumbled in its charnel where the bolts of iron 

rust, 
Prisoned under walls of granite in the ashes and the dust; 

Far away in haunted deserts, over solemn seas forlorn, 
Far beyond the mystic mountains, never lit by light of 
morn: 

In a realm of mournful midnight, where no friendly feet 

may tread, 
Shrouded with the silent sleepers, in the dwellings of the 

dead. 

But I heard you calling, darling, through the bitterness and 
blight, 

Through the death and desolation, through the dark De- 
cember night. 

And the charnel bolts were broken, and a Seraph set me 

free, 
As the angel came at midnight to His tomb beyond the 

sea. 

[ 254 ] 



Selected Poems 



Once again I feel the fervor of the swoonful springtime 

flowers, 
Once again I feel the brilliance of the summer's blissful 

bowers. 

Once again the brooklets bubble, and I see the happy 

herds : 
Once again I hear the trilling of a thousand blithesome 

birds. 

Like a dream of song and story, morning flames in skies 

above, 
And my steps are strewn with lilies from the fairy-land of 

love. 

And my hands shall scatter roses, arch her path with gar- 
lands green, 
For my loyal heart is longing for the coming of the Queen. 

She is coming, and shall never leave her love to tread 

alone ; 
Coming back to reign forever, to her scepter and her 

throne ! 

She is coming, she is coming! all is grand and all is glorious; 
She is coming, she is coming, and my heart is now victo- 
rious ! 

So her sweet face smiling softly, shall be banished from 

me never, 
And the night of desolation fadeth from my heart forever. 

THE WITCH OF THE WINEGLASS 

Robed like an empress of almighty Rome, 

I see a sweet seducer in her lair, 
With creamy bosoms, light as flakes of foam, 

And yellow roses in her yellow hair. 

[ 255 ] 



Selected "Poems 



A flush of fervor decks the queen of sin 

With all an autumn sunset's gorgeous dyes, 

And Passion, like a panther, glares within 
The emerald-golden splendor of her eyes. 

Around her palace door, the glossy vines 
Are bending with mellifluous grapes of gold, 

The marble steps are splashed with purple wines, 
Like blood-stained altars of the days of old. 

A poppy seems to blossom in her lips, 
Bearing the poison of enchanted sleep, 

A leopard's velvet seem her finger-tips, 

To stroke her victim ere she makes her leap. 

She comes to greet me with a glass of wine, 

Mellow and sparkling, flecked with feathery foam, 

And murmurs, "Drink, and thou shalt be divine; 
Come, make this bosom and this heart thy home! 



n 



She comes to meet me on a summer day, 

With blue and orange banners waved on high, 

With blue and orange blossoms on her way, 
A blue and orange morning in the sky. 

I kiss her on her fervent mouth of flame, 
And swear to love and serve her evermore, 

To perish with her, deaf to voice of blame, 
As countless sons of men have done before. 

But years glide by, and I am growing old, 

My footsteps totter through the fields of gray, 

My soul is weary, and my heart is cold, 

And all my hopes of heaven have passed away. 

Her marble palace, shattered in the dust, 

Is draped with brown sprays of her withered vines. 

Her golden diadem is dim with rust, 
Amid her ruined columns she repines. 

[ 256 ] 



Selected Toems 



Her songs are now but lamentations loud, 
As Desolation follows in her track, 

Her festal robes are now a funeral shroud, 
And all her brilliant banners now are black. 

Her golden locks are sprinkled now with snows, 
Her blanishments of beauty all are dead ; 

My heart, like hers, is but a withered rose, 
My soul, like hers, a summer that has fled. 



LITTLE SWEETHEART 

Little sweetheart, years have passed 
Since I walked beside you last, 
Gazing in your eyes of blue, 
As you promised to be true. 

Love and Hope and Joy lie dead, 
And my happy dreams have fled 
Since I saw your face so fair, 
Through its haze of golden hair. 

All is lonesome, all is still 
Where I used to hear your trill ; 
Youth has lost its morning glow 
Since I left you long ago. 

Little sweetheart, life seems cold 
As my heart and soul grow old, 
And my faith is less and less 
As I miss your old caress. 

Slowly, slowly earth grows sere 
As I wait and listen here 
Vainly for the cadence sweet 
Of your dear bare little feet. 

[ 257 ] 



Selected Toerns 



Honor, power, wealth and fame 
I have sought to deck my name, 
But they all have proved untrue, 
And I call in vain to you. 

Little sweetheart, come to me, 
As of old, so fresh and free, 
In your little dress of white, 
In your ribbons gay and bright! 

Does your true heart ever yearn 
For your lover to return? 
Shall I once more hear the beat 
Of your dear bare little feet? 

Little sweetheart, let me know 
If you love me still below — 
Tell me, sweetheart, as I pass 
Through your silent churchyard's grass. 



MORNING AND EVENING 

In vanished years it seemed an easy task 
To win the hearts of others on our way ; 

To gain affection only meant to ask, 

To love meant only to be young and gay. 

But like a rich convolvulus in bloom 
Amid the summer, under morning skies, 

Young Love before the noontide meets his doom, 
And in his splendor and his glory dies. 

Or like an oriole from tropic lands 
That blazes by us on a brilliant wing, 

He^flies afar to unknown foreign strands 

When Autumn gales their withered foliage fling. 

[ 258 ] 



Selected Poems 



Like blackened torches in abandoned vaults 
Are all the arts and wiles we used of yore ; 

For those who love us learn to find our faults, 
And having found them, never love us more. 

So then, mine own, I cling more close to you, 

Though gray threads sprinkle through your locks of 
brown, 

Your eyes no longer dewy, bright and blue, 
Your cheeks no longer like a peach's down. 

And you are like a faithful mocking-bird 
Amid the gloam of life's fast-fading light, 

Whose strange and sweet love-lyrics still are heard 
In brown boughs of the dim October night, 

Or like a holly in the Christmas snows, 

Still green when Summer verdure all is shed, 

Or like an autumn violet that blows 

Beneath brown leaves, when other blooms are dead. 

When we were young and gay, and you were fair, 
We thought that love with youth would all be o'er, 

But as I kiss your face, grown rough with care, 
We find, dear heart, we never loved before. 



ZOLA 

He comes in triumph to his native land, 

A Conqueror by the power of the pen. 
Whose voice was stronger than the steel-gloved hand, 

Winning a battle with the minds of men. 

Like Jacob, he was called upon by God 

To throw aside the errors of his past, 
To purge his weakness, struggle from the sod, 

And fight through faults, triumphant at the last. 

[ 259 ] 



Selected "Poems 



And though fanatics still revile his name, 

Though not one palm is strewn upon his way, 

Though bigot lips dispute his hard-won fame, 
He is a monarch on this glorious day ! 

For roses twine to deck a weakling's head, 
Incenses burn to idols made of mud, 

The palms are strewn to ease a despot's tread, 
And laurel wreaths are made for men of blood. 

To make him great, no souls were sacrificed, 
No widow wept, no orphan's cheek grew pale, 

For he has suffered in the cause of Christ, 
And he has sought and found the Holy Grail. 

Now, Paris, pressing back her vague alarms, 
Uplifts her casque, and lays aside her lance; 

Rejoicing, there extend the eager arms 
Of her, his lovely, once-disdainful France ! 

Though Gentile, Israel's Ruler summoned him 
To right a persecuted people's wrongs, 

And he shall live when distant ages dim 
In Israel's stories and in Israel's songs. 

Thy faults are overshadowed by thy fame, 
O warrior who hast lifted Gideon's sword, 

O Champion of the Chosen People's name, 
O Captain in the legions of the Lord ! 

1899. 



[ 260 ] 



Selected Poems 



PONCE DE LEON 

I 

At midnight Ponce de Leon stood alone 
Beneath the gray sails of his sea-worn ship, 
His fierce eyes faded by the flight of years, 
His broad brow withered by a thousand toils. 
Around him spread the boundless southern seas, 
Above him hung the mystic southern skies ; 
Seas never sailed by ships of men before, 
The phantom gateway to a phantom world, 
Unfolding marvels in their magic isles 
Held close in secret since the world began ; 
Skies that have never seen their realms revealed, 
Though watched and gazed upon six thousand years, 
With starry isles that saw the birth of Time, 
Whose godlike glories none shall ever know. 

The mighty yellow moon began to rise, 
Beyond the gaunt palms of a rocky isle, 
In all the golden glory of the south, 
Undimmed through ruins of the myriad years, 
Revealing secrets of this new-found world, 
Herself a secret never to be told. 

And Ponce de Leon lingered still alone, 

For none among his sailors knew his plans, 

And none could understand his vague, vain dreams; 

And though his feet were treading in their midst, 

His soul was sailing in a ship alone, 

Upon an ocean in another world. 

And then he spoke in whispers to himself: 

"I see the moon rise as in years of yore 

She rose above the Andalusian skies, 

And silvered castle turrets on the heights, 

And haunted grottoes far away in Spain, 

[ 261 ] 



Selected Toems 



A wondrous blossom fading night by night, 

And yet renewed in splendor evermore. 

"But those who watched her with me when a boy, 

Have passed forever from the sight of men, 

And left me gray and lone and desolate, 

A relic of a generation dead. 

A thousand leagues of ocean sweep and swirl 

Between me and their graves in distant Spain ; 

The same old moonlight trembling on their tombs 

Far, far away in scenes of perished years, 

Across the waves of ocean dark and wide 

Now trembles on me, treading earth alone, 

Surrounded by the youthful and the gay, 

Dissevered from old faces that I knew, 

A living spectre of the vanished years. 

"In days long perished, with this loyal sword, 
I smote the Moors on many a battlefield, 
Or fought the savage in this new-found world ; 
But now it quakes and quivers in my hand, 
And now its keen edge cankers into rust. 
The younger soldiers watch me with a smile, 
And whisper that my time has passed away. 
Then, all the grand old friends that once I knew, 
With whom I braved the perils of the deep, 
When bold Columbus sailed the trackless seas, 
Have left me, passing to another world 
Whose seas forever shall be unexplored. 

"Once, in those dear days, ere my raven hair 

Was flecked with frost of melancholy years, 

When my young heart seemed full of summer warmth, 

And all the fragrance of the flowery fields ; 

When sunny skies hung in a mellow maze 

And all the world was wreathed in garlands green ; 

When pearly peach-blooms in the orchards blew, 

And tuneful thrushes wove their happy nests, 

[ 262 ] 



Selected Toems 



I wandered with a maiden whom I loved, 
The fairest and the sweetest of the earth. 
Ah, well I now remember when she said 
'I love you,' how the tell-tale linnets trilled; 
And when I kissed her loving little lips, 
The dewy daisies kissed her little feet. 

"But then we parted by the dear old gate, 

Beside the roadway leading to the town; 

And as I clasped her ere I went away, 

We vowed to love each other evermore. 

But leagues of desert, mountain, wold and wave 

Came in between us, as an awful storm 

Dissevers two ships far away at sea ; 

And yet we loved each other all the more, 

Longing to press each other's lips again, 

To gaze once more within each other's eyes, 

To speak once more the old, old words of love. 

But year by year sped swiftly, and at last 

We both grew gray beneath their wizard wings. 

So when at last we two had met again, 

Both shrank back, startled, at the fearful change. 

"Ah, poor old woman! All thy golden locks, 
Had grizzled long before to gray, while age 
Plucked, one by one, the roses from thy face, 
And dimmed with winter's tearful twilight gloom 
The summer splendor of thy dear blue eyes. 
My boyhood bloom had vanished from my face, 
And left an old man, poor and desolate. 
"Alas! I dare not tell the hateful tale 
Of disappointment and of chill despair; 
Of how I shunned her as she turned from me ; 
How all the leagues of ocean and of earth 
Had bound us closer with a chain of love, 
And yet the years had stolen in between, 
And like a throng of traitors, slow but sure, 
Had separated us forevermore. 

[ 263 ] 



Selected Toems 



"Since we have parted, I have roamed the world 
To find the Fount of Youth, whose crystal waves 
Shall make us young again ; but evermore 
My dreams and visions all are doomed to die. 
The crafty red men, wishing to be free 
From pillage of my soldiers, ever tell 
Of this, the mystic fountain of my dreams, 
As being just beyond their native lands. 
Yet as I journeyed onward, hoping still, 
They ever point me further to the north ; 
And so I seek forever more in vain. 
But I shall never cease to journey on, 
Until I find Immortal Youth, or Death." 



II 

All worn and weary with his weight of cares, 
He sank in troubled slumber on the deck. 
He dreamed he wandered through a desert waste 
Of red sands, parching underneath red suns, 
Where withered rocks were never decked with dews, 
Nor shriveled skies refreshed with cooling clouds, 
But flamed forever with a feverish fire, 
Like aching eyes too sore with grief for tears ; 
Where bubbling fountains, blossoms, birds and trees 
Had not existed since the world began. 

His feet were bleeding on the cruel flints, 

His tongue was throbbing with a maddening thirst. 

At last he sank upon the sands to die : 

Then, ere he closed his eyes, far, far away, 

Where the red sun was rising in the east 

Like a great giant rousing in his wrath, 

He saw the snowy peaks and plumy palms 

Of an oasis green as emerald. 

[ 264 ] 



Selected To ems 



Then all his hopes revived like fading flowers 
That open to the patter of the rain ; 
He roused himself and journeyed on again, 
Until he reached that peerless paradise. 
So, when his aching limbs reposed at last 
On dewy mosses by its silvery springs, 
He laughed and shouted with a frenzied joy, 
Till reason came again to soothe his soul, 
And then he gazed around in wonderment. 

Magnolias waved their glossy boughs of green, 

With great white blossoms bursting into bloom, 

Like moonlight on the bosom of a swan ; 

The golden jasmines swung their chalices, 

And scattered such sweet odors on the air, 

That blithesome breezes swooned and reeled with joy, 

And kissed them dying in delicious love; 

The frail wild roses trembled on their stems, 

Like modest maidens robed in spotless silk; 

The redbird flamed amid the verdant boughs, 

A royal ruby in an emerald throne ; 

The bluebird, like a feathered violet, 

Whose fragile fragrance vanished in a song, 

Played with the humming-birds, whose jeweled wings 

Would sparkle like a dazzling shower of gems; 

The mock-bird sang with all his fervent soul, 

As though the ghost of some great bard of old 

Had come to live in bosom of a bird, 

With tongue of silver and a heart of gold. 

And there, amid the blossom-tangled vines, 

The trembling leaflets and the trilling birds, 

A crystal fountain, like a storm of snow 

Leaped in its sparkling splendor far on high, 

In clouds of plumy vapor, frosty spray, 

And dazzling dewdrops, with their diamond hues. 



[ 265 ] 



Selected Poems 



Beside it stood a maiden, bright as morn, 

A crystal goblet brimming in her hands 

With bubbling radiance, like a crown of gems, 

Or like a spotless, palpitating star. 

A gauzy garment fluttered round her limbs, 

Too frail to hide her lustrous loveliness ; 

And there she stood, so pure, diaphanous, 

The sunlight through her crystal splendor shone, 

And one might see the pearly lily bells 

Shine through the wine-like beauty of her breast, 

And feathery ferns through light, tansparent arms, 

While humming-birds were tangled and ensnared 

Amid the mazes of her golden hair, 

And frailest water lilies bended not 

Beneath the tripping of her rosy feet. 

She motioned him, the gray-haired mariner, 
To drink the sparkling goblet that she gave 
Out of the fountain of undying youth ; 
But ere his lips could quaff the cooling stream, 
He woke to find it vanished from his sight, 
To find his anxious comrades gathered round, 
Awaked and startled by his dreamful sighs ; 
To see, with weary eyes, the same old world, 
And the old story of its tears and toils. 

Ill 

Resplendent morning, flushed and passionate, 
With eyes a-sparkle and with cheeks aflame, 
Sinks in the white arms of the panting day; 
And like a young bride on her nuptial night, 
When first her lover sees her virgin breast, 
Averts her eyes beneath his burning gaze, 
Then leaps with fervor on his blazing heart, 
Consumed within the white heat of his love, 
Its swoonful blisses and delirious joys. 

[ 266 ] 



Selected Toems 



Along the sandy coast of Florida 

The proud palmettoes lift their serried spears, 

The giant grapevines twist their snaky arms 

In monstrous coils around the live-oak limbs; 

The verdant creepers cling to rotten trunks, 

With crimson-clustered blossoms thrusting forth, 

Like bloody fingers of a murderer's hand. 

The wondrous wildwoods with their emerald shades 

Are like the forests under ocean waves. 

The jasmine blooms like mellow amber clings, 

The dogwood blossoms hang like lustrous pearls, 

And redbuds glimmer like a coral grove; 

The dead trees lift like masts of sunken ships, 

And humming-birds flit through the verdant gloom, 

Like jeweled fishes flashing golden fins. 

The red flamingoes throng the sandy coast, 

Like splashes of a bloody sunset sky; 

The snow-white pelican, the awkward crane, 

Thread with the spoon-bill in the shallow bay; 

While far above, a secret evermore, 

The ancient sacred ibis floats along. 

All day they sail along the yellow coast; 
All day they look upon the wondrous woods ; 
All day they watch the red flamingoes flame, 
And see the ibis circling through the skies. 
But still they see no face of living man, 
No cheerful cottage and no curling smoke, 
As though the land were Adam's paradise 
Where nevermore his banished sons should tread. 

And now the evening, like a Bacchanal, 
In all the splendor of her streaming hair, 
In all the flush of madness jubilant, 
Arrayed in purple and in cloth of gold, 
Lifts in the skies her chalice crystalline 
And splashes all the clouds with rosy wines, 

[ 267 ] 



Selected Poems 



Tingling and trembling with voluptuous thrills, 
Amid her throngs of frenzied revelers, 
Till all the spectral shadows of the night, 
Like stealthy foemen at some ancient feast, 
Creep in with daggers of the flashing stars 
And slay them in the blossom of their bliss. 

Again the moonrise in the mystic night, 
Again the glimmer of the silent stars, 
Again the secrets never to be told, 
Again the lonely vigil in the gloom ! 

Once more the gray-haired sailor stands alone, 

Beneath the gray sails of his sea-worn ship; 

Once more he dreams of scenes in perished years, 

Of faces in the tomb of long ago. 

He wanders through the fields that once he trod, 

In blithesome boyhood, far away in Spain; 

He sees the village just beneath the hill, 

He sees the vineyards and the cottages, 

He sees the peasants toiling in the fields. 

The birds are singing as in days of old, 

The bees are booming in the clover blooms 

Just as they boomed around him when a boy. 

He hears the children laughing in the lanes, 

And almost thinks he hears them call his name, 

Or beg him join them in their happy play. 

He sees the foolish lovers wooing still 

Beneath the peach-blooms, while the mild -eyed dove 

Peeps at them as she hovers in her nest. 

He sees the old spring with its little brook 

In which he waded when a bare-foot boy; 

Here stands the old stile where he met her first; 

Here runs the lane where first he told his love, 

The ancient oak that saw him press her hand, 

And saw him steal his first kiss from her lips, — 

Then the old gate that saw their fond farewell. 

[ 268 ] 



Selected Toems 



But all the dear young faces that he knew, 
Are sleeping yonder on the lonesome hill ; 
All, — all but one! his heart can not forget 
Yon poor old woman tottering up the road, 
With slouching headgear and with wooden shoes, 
Bent almost double o'er a knotty stick, 
Bearing a basket with a few scant herbs, 
Gathered together for her meager meal. 
Too well his heart remembers, long ago, 
This poor old crone was young and beautiful, 
Though now all grizzled, gaunt and full of pains, 
A ruined relic, scorned by all the world, 
That only loves the young and gay and fair ; 
Forgotten by them all save one old man 
In this lone world, a thousand leagues away! 

He knew that soon for her the end would come, 
Thus toiling feebly as the days went by. 
"My God, my God!" he faltered through his tears, 
"Grant me the power to find the magic fount, 
That I may save her, make her young again, 
Ere all my toils may be too late, too late!" 



IV 



Day after day they sailed along the coast, 
Until they reached a river, deep and broad. 
Day after day they sailed its green expanse, 
Seeking with sorrow for the Fount of Youth. 

Day after day comes laughing in the east, 
Day after day lies bleeding in the west ; 
Day after day, hope blossoms in their hearts, 
Day after day, their hopes are doomed to die. 

[ 269 ] 



Selected Poems 



But the great river narrowed in their course, 
Or spread its waters into shallow bays, 
Until at last they reached a tangled pass, 
Where the good ship could sail no further south. 
The broad lush lily pads, with myriad blooms, 
Like snares of Sirens meshing peerless pearls, 
Threw mazy network all around the prow : 
The cypress and the live-oak threw their limbs 
Like giant arms to bar them on their way; 
The grapevines and the creepers joined above 
And like a cobweb tangled in the mast; 
The scaly alligators on the logs 
Were strewn across the islands and the bays 
Like hideous dragons of the days of old, 
Guarding the gold fruit of Hesperides. 

The heron, standing stiffly, looking wise, 

With one foot resting in the water-cress, 

Seemed mocking at him with a lazy leer; 

The gay kingfisher, garbed in gaudy robes, 

Seemed smiling at him and his foolish quest; 

The crane flew by him on her spectral wings 

Like a white ghost of dead and buried years ; 

The radiant redbird paused amid his flight, 

To see the stranger in this western world. 

Lost in the mazes of his deep despair, 

The gray-haired sailor heeded none of them, 

Save a sweet mock-bird in magnolia boughs, 

Whose soft song soothed his bleeding heart like balm. 

Then with a faltering voice he gave command 
To turn the vessel northward in return, 
Though like a bird hemmed in an iron cage 
His soul, still beating at its prison bars, 
And raging at its fetters and its chains, 
Was longing to pursue its visions still. 

[ 270 ] 



Selected Poems 



That night he pondered long unto himself, 

Upon the sphinx-like riddle, Life and Death. 

"Alas!" he murmured, "ages glide away, 

And desolation conquers all at last. 

Like mists of morning, nations disappear, 

Like leaves of autumn, kingdoms quiver by. 

As Egypt perished with her hoary kings, 

As gray Assyria saw her columns fall, 

So all our empires, with their myriad souls, 

Shall be the same old idle story still; 

And countless kingdoms that shall follow them, 

Like them shall vanish in the same old tomb. 

Age follows age, till earth is shriveled up, 

For all the universe is but a grave. 

"Why live, if youth shall ever end in age? 
If death shall ever triumph over life? 
What mean our petty triumphs and our toils 
If all are offerings at the shrine of death? 
Could I but find the blessed fount of youth, 
I would be greater than the kings of earth, 
Than all immortal poets of the past, 
Than all the prophets and the priests of God. 
But nevermore my hopes shall come to pass ; 
So all the world shall perish with my dream." 

And then in troubled sleep he treads again 
His boyhood pathways, far away in Spain; 
Once more he wanders by the mossy brook, 
Once more he sees the castle on the height ; 
Once more he treads the orchards, all a-bloom 
With crimson clover and with pearly peach ; 
Once more he sees the village, old and quaint, 
Through whose dull streets he trod so long ago, 
Before he yearned to roam around the world, 
And seek his fortune in the courts and camps. 
Once more he sees the house where he was born, 
And then, alas! the graveyard on the hill. 

[ 271 ] 



Selected Toems 



But soon he sees, with looks of deep dismay, 
A throng of peasants plodding up the hill, 
Poor, simple creatures, dressed in coarsest garb, 
With threadbare doublets and with wooden shoes. 
Before them walks an ancient barefoot friar, 
With eyes downcast upon a crucifix; 
Then four stout yoemen follow close behind, 
And bear a box-like coffin, rough and rude, 
Wherein he sees a woman's furrowed face; 
Her withered hands are folded on her breast, 
Her wrinkled eyelids now forever closed. 

But no one weeps above her pallid corpse 
And no one sighs to see her pass away 
Save this old man, far in a western world, 
Whose heart is buried in her humble grave. 

The days dragged on, and Ponce de Leon strove 
With patient hands to conquer Florida; 
To build a city and to till the fields, 
And make a goodly province for his king. 

His feet were worn, yet he had found no rest; 

His hands were feeble, yet had toiled in vain ; 

His eyes were dim, yet he had never seen 

The mystic marvels of the magic fount. 

All hope had vanished from his withered heart, 

Yet still he lived, as in a weary dream; 

But life, which long had kept awake his woes, 

Was soon to bring him to the bitter end, 

To tread the hideous border-land of death, 

Where dark despair eclipses every star. 

One cloudless day, when pensive evening pined 
Above the tangled forests of the west, 
After a bloody battle bravely won 
Against the crafty Indians of the land, — 

[ 272 ] 



Selected Toems 



Won in a manner worthy of the man 

Who plucked the crimson flower of his fame 

Not on a carpet, but a bloody field, — 

He wandered from the outskirts of his camp, 

And sat beside the margin of a pool. 

A little pool it was, fed by a brook, 

That twisted like a serpent through the grass, 

Half choked with reeds and rushes and with mint. 

The lakelet was so clear that one might see 

Its sandy bottom, fathoms five below, 

And watch the writhing fishes wave their fins, 

With shining scales, and twirling, twisting tails, 

And gaping jaws and huge and glassy eyes, 

Like grotesque phantoms in a haunted land. 

The swallows dipped amid the dewy spray, 

The heron stood amid the water weeds 

And watched the gray coot diving in the depths. 

The bluejay in a scaly sycamore 

Cried as she saw a black snake slide below; 

The staid woodpecker, crowned with crimson plumes, 

Climbed slowly up an oak-tree's aged trunk. 

The brown thrush fluttered to her cosy nest, 

Where, like a roguish gypsy maiden's eyes, 

The round blackberries, gemmed with diamond dew, 

Seemed peeping at her as she sank to rest. 

An oriole, arrayed in royal robes, 

Shown with the mingled glory and the gloom 

Of orange sunrise and of sable night. 

Long sat he there, and dreamed of other days, 
Till sombre twilight trod the forest depths, 
Draped all the splendor of the sunset skies, 
And robed the woods in funeral garb of gray. 
But with the death of that eventful day, 
The gray-haired sailor was to meet his doom ; 
For in the shades a stealthy foeman crept, 
Nearer and nearer, with a sharpened spear. 

[ 273 ] 



Selected Poems 



Then all at once the Indian leaped in view, 
And pierced him through his armor with the spear; 
The old man struck the savage to the ground, 
And slew him with his ever-trusty sword. 

He called his comrades, in the camp near by, 
Who bore him in a litter to the ship, 
But sought in vain to cure his mortal wound. 
Scarce could he speak ; yet gathered strength at last, 
To bid them turn to Cuba, on the morn. 

So they obeyed him, trimmed the ready sails, 
To bear him southward, there to see him die. 
But ere he left, there came a zealous priest 
To breathe the gospel in his deafened ears, 
And point its pathway to his fading eyes ; 
He held the crucifix where one might see 
The writhing Christ nailed to the cruel tree. 

"O Ponce de Leon," spake he solemnly, 

"Long hast thou searched to find the fount of youth, 

But seen thy searches evermore in vain : 

And thou hast found that, drink where'er thou wilt, 

Thy thirst returns and thou must drink again ; 

Yet, as thou searchest, still thou growest old, 

And as thou seekest thou shalt surely die. 

But, hapless man, the fountain shall be found, 

And I shall show it to thy fading eyes : 

For if thou drinkest of the well of Christ, 

Thy thirst shall pass away forevermore, 

And drinking of that well, thy youth returns, 

And thou shalt dwell in palmy Paradise, 

Forever happy and forever young." 

But Ponce de Leon beckoned him away, 
And turned his dim eyes from the crucifix. 
"Oh, thou hast been deceived," the priest replied, 
"But God will keep His promises to thee." 

[ 274 ] 



Selected Poems 



Still Ponce de Leon beckoned him away, 

And still refused to see the crucifix. 

"Unhappy man," the priest replied again, 

"Like mildew on thy hopes and happiness, 

Descends the curse of infidelity, 

Which holds the scepter in the shades below, 

Where demons laugh to see one flee from God. 

Come back, come back! It is not yet too late 

To reach the portals of thy Father's home, 

Where saints and seraphs with their starry crowns, 

Bask in the sunlight of the smile of God, 

And wait to welcome thee on thy return 

With sounds triumphant like the swelling sea. 

Look up to Heaven ! seest thou no signal there, 

No smile of seraph, and no helping hand? 

Seest thou no torch to guide thee in the gloom? 

Seest thou no golden city, far away? 

Behold the Lamb of God, and thou shalt live! 

Cry out to Christ, and He shall comfort thee!" 



The dying warrior turned his haggard face, 

First tried to speak, then feebly shook his head, 

As if to say "No! I shall hope no more: 

All, all are fables; I will not believe: 

For you deceive me as the rest have done." 

The priest fled horrified, and left him there, 

To die the death of those who turn from God. 

The sails were spread, the harbor soon was cleared, 

The vessel glided far away to sea. 

The old priest watched it, through his blinding tears, 

Till the dim sails had faded from the skies ; 

A ship of death, that bore one to his tomb, • 

A ship of death, doomed by the curse of God! 

Still beams the moon on Andalusian hills, 

As in the dead years of the long ago 

When Ponce de Leon and the maid he loved 

C 275 ] 



Selected Toems 



In blissful silence heard each other's hearts 

Beating together with a bounding bliss, 

And told each other with their eager eyes 

The sweet old story that shall ever live 

When kings and queens have crumbled in the clay, 

And all the empires of the earth are dust. 

The moonbeams falter on her grassy grave, 
Upon a lone hill, far away in Spain, 
While he is sleeping in his sepulchre 
Beyond the oceans of the western world. 
The foolish lovers, in their thoughtless bliss, 
Still woo each other as they tread the fields 
Where those two lovers, centuries ago, 
First told their passion to each other's eyes. 

Still shines the sun in skies of Florida, 
With all the glory of the yester-years, 
When Ponce de Leon trod her wondrous woods, 
To find the fountain of immortal youth. 
Another people rules her palmy plains, 
Another nation, with another tongue: 
Yet never has the marvel of the fount 
Arisen before the eyes of mortal man. 

Like him, we long to see its crystal waves, 
When old age, like November, chills the skies, 
And all our dead hopes, like her withered leaves, 
Are falling at the coming of the night. 
Like him, we long to see our youth again 
Bring back the withered roses of the past, 

The mirth of May, and joys of jeweled June, 
When April buds are all forever dead, 
And suns of Summer have forever set. 
Like him, we see our toils are all in vain: 
Like him we see that we are growing gray : 
We seek forever, and we never find, 
And as we seek it, we shall surely die. 

[ 276 ] 



Selected Toems 



NARCISSUS 

I 

The morning flamed above the Doric hills 

In all the joyous glory of her youth, 

As though her roses would be red forever, 

And deck the whole world in unfading bloom. 

Her sparkling eyes dimmed all the night's wan stars, 

Her red cheeks tinged the clouds with crimson fire, 

While silvery arrows from her lands of light 

Dispersed the shadows from the verdant woods. 

The lithe stag started from his grassy couch, 

And shook the dewdrops from his branching horns; 

The falcon spread his light wings to the winds 

And darted upward like a sharpened spear. 

The herdsman led his oxen to the brook, 

Whose wavelets wondered at the great round eyes: 

Then merry laughter from the roguish fauns 

Resounded keenly through the leafy dells; 

But louder than them all, some piping sprite 

Made liquid music with the warbling birds. 

But soon Narcissus left his flowery couch, 

Narcissus, ever young and beautiful! 

And there amid resplendent beams of morn, 

Amid the blossoms, odorous, soft and sweet, 

And wildly graceful spirits of the woods, 

Narcissus shone the wonder of them all. 

No red deer's skin, no tawny lion's hide, 

No woven fabric round his shoulders hung, 

For young Narcissus roamed in beauty nude; 

His soft round limbs, fair as a lily's buds, 

Were never hidden in a useless garb. 

The flush of boyhood still adorned his face, 

A childish beauty budding into youth ; 

He scampered nimbly like a half-grown god, 

With shrill songs varying to a deepening bass. 

[ 277 ] 



Selected Toems 



Sweet little dimples flitted round his mouth, 
His curving arms were lovely as a babe's, 
His little feet like frail and tinted shells, 
With tiny peeping toes like purest pearls. 
His roguish eyes bent downward timidly, 
As though ashamed to see his nakedness ; 
His golden ringlets hung upon his breast, 
Too short to hide his sweet, enchanting charms. 

The nymphs beheld him in his boyish grace, 
Enraptured by his rounded, naked limbs, 
Drinking his beauty like some wondrous wine, 
That makes the blood break into flowers of flame, 
Their bosoms madly throbbing, eyes afire, 
Breathe wildly panting in an eager love, 
So that they longed to clasp him in their arms 
Forever in delirious blissful swoons. 
And often would they follow him all day, 
Untiring, through the distant woods and fields. 
They'd stroll beside him and call him pet names, 
Clasp his soft cheeks and stroke his curly hair. 
Oft would they leap upon him from the ferns, 
And kiss his sweet lips time and time again, 

Or madly beg him for one word of love, 
Or one embrace to give them in return. 
The pretty boy, half angered, like a child, 
Would pout, then laugh, half relishing their love. 

But often, wearied of their close pursuit, 
He longed to wander lone and unharassed. 
In vain! for everywhere the roguish spies 
Would watch his path and haunt his flying feet. 
Through meadows, fields, and forests deep and dark, 
Still grottoes, lonely dells, high mountain-tops, 
By winding rivers, lily-covered lakes, 
He sought in vain for rest in solitude. 

[ 278 ] 



Selected Toems 



Among the nymphs who thus would follow him, 
Poor Echo vexed him more than all the rest ; 
And while his cunning thwarted other eyes, 
This maiden always wandered at his side. 
Full oft when gathering violets in the woods, 
And thinking him unseen, he'd quickly start 
To feel a burning kiss upon his lips, 
And see her lithe form swiftly vanishing; 
Full oft, beneath some hoary oak's green boughs, 
His tired head resting on a bank of moss, 
While sleep was weaving meshes round his eyes, 
Would hear wild words of deep, despairing love, 
Sad, soulful sighs, with fond reproaches breathed, 
And waking, there behold two great dark eyes 
Bent o'er him, and a passion-heaving breast 
His pillow, that had first been mossy earth. 

Again, while wandering through the caverned hills, 
Amid the shades would Echo glide along, 
And clasp his hands within her fingers wan, 
Or, while the hot tears trickled down her cheeks, 
Would sob and murmur of his cruelty. 

A curse had long been laid on Echo's head 
By jealous Hera, heartless in her hate. 
For Echo often had assisted Zeus 
In hiding amorous sins from Hera's eye, 
Till, being seized at last, confessed her guilt, 
And felt the fury of the queen of heaven. 

Perfidious Zeus refused the nymph to shield ; 
So she was banished from the gods' abode, 
To wander lonely through the waste of Earth, 
Where rove swift-fated mortals to the grave, 
And Autumn blights the glory of the year; 
To pine amid the solemn wilderness, 
And long for high Olympus, lost forever. 

[ 279 ] 



Selected Poems 



And Echo was not bright or beautiful, 

But plainest, darkest of the woodland nymphs. 

Her form had faded to a flitting shade, 

Her voice had wasted to a mournful cry. 

Her eyes were large, dark as a cavern's gloom, 

Her tresses like the dusty clouds of night ; 

Her face was like a specter, and her sighs 

Like bitter moaning of the winter winds. 

Each word that reached her would her tongue repeat, 

For so the high gods cursed her for her sins. 

She loved the shades, the solemn solitudes, 

The lonely grottoes and steep mountain sides. 

So while she haunted close Narcissus' path, 

She dared not show her visage openly, 

But stole behind him ever stealthily, 

And vanished when he turned to speak reproach, 

Or, when he sat, would hide in thickets near, 

And gaze upon him from the sullen shades. 

Sometimes Narcissus, out of cruel spite, 

Would wound her heart with stinging jealousy 

When smiling on some other rival nymph, 

Who madly kissed or fondly folded him. 

Her dark eyes glittered with a blasting woe 

To see him laughing on a swelling breast, 

Some nymph, with round arms close embracing him, 

And drinking in his lovely boyish charms. 

But oft Narcissus scorned the charms of all, 

And on this morning shunned each maiden's face. 

II 

The first who met him as he tripped along 
Was one who hunted there with Artemis, 
A stately maid with waving ebon hair, 
With cheeks as crimson as a poppy's bloom, 
With dark and wondrous splendor-streaming eyes, 
And queenly brow of softest olive hue. 

[ 280 ] 



Selected Toems 



She seemed like dusky twilight, gemmed with stars, 
And sprinkled by the bleeding heart of day. 
Her pure, white feet, with golden sandals decked, 
Were stainless and as soft as Eros' wings; 
Her green cloak, waving in the morning wind, 
Betrayed a rounded bosom like a swan. 
Upon her back a bow and quiver hung, 
Within her hand a scintillating spear. 

"Is this Narcissus?" said she, with a smile; 

"I've seen you in these hills but once before; 

Yet one so beautiful no eye forgets, 

And so my memory can not be at fault. 

But hark, my pretty boy, a face like yours 

Will often carry with it deep despair; 

The nymphs whose love you scorn are plotting now 

To have revenge upon you. This I know. 

For on Olympus only yester-eve 

I saw a throng of them with Nemesis, 

The stern-browed spirit, feared of gods and men, 

Whose only joy is marring lives like yours. 

I heard them murmur at your cruelty, 

Then beg dark Nemesis to curse you, boy, 

And she, I think, assented. Watch them well, 

For much I fear some evil day will come." 

"Was Echo there? 'Tis like her spiteful way; 

I always hated her, and always will." 

"You wrong her, foolish boy; she was not there, 

She long ago was driven from on high. 

I can not tell you more, for hark, oh, hark! 

The deep-mouthed hounds are baying through the woods, 

In hot pursuit of some affrighted stag. 

Ye gods! My heart leaps in exulting joy, 

And all my veins are tingling for the chase. 

Farewell! I follow swiftly to the hunt." 

[ 281 ] 



Selected Toems 



"What thanks, fair goddess, shall I offer thee? — 
But yet, alas! I have no gift of worth." 

"A gift, thou foolish boy? Give me a kiss; 
For kisses from a young man's amorous mouth 
Will buy from woman more than gems and gold. 
Another kiss ! Another ! Clasp again ! 

"Just one more kiss, Narcissus, then I go! 
My mistress would reproach me for this act, 
But for its joy I'd bear her frown forever. 
Beware, O youth. Echo thou needs t not fear; 
She loves thee as the banished god loves heaven, 
But would not harm thee to regain her throne." 

Narcissus stood, stunned with a curdling fear. 

The smile died on his quivering, ashen lips, 

His heart grew numb, his youthful blood grew cold. 

"Why should they wish to harm me?" muttered he; 

"Am I not free to spurn them if I wish? 

Shall I be blamed because I love them not? 

Shall I be blamed because they pine for me?" 

Soon turned he on his heels, and musing, went 

Along the brook, then sat beneath an elm. 

He paused a while, then, growing restless, turned 

And lay upon his back, while his fair locks 

Were pillowed on a bank of feathery ferns. 

But then the sun, ascending high in heaven, 

Sent through the parted boughs a tiny beam 

That fell upon his eyes and made him wince, 

So that he leaped up, restless and annoyed. 

Soon sitting down again, he dipt his feet 

Within the crystal waters just below, — 

Those beauteous feet, more soft and sweet and white 

Than all the spotless water-lilies there. 

[ 282 ] 



Selected Toems 



The wavelets kissed their delicate blue veins, 

And fondled them, and babbled petting sounds, 

While silvery minnows, growing bold at last, 

Began to nibble at the tiny toes, 

Which tingled till they blushed like rose-buds pink, 

When he, to rout the minnows, shook his foot, 

Splashing the water into foaming spray, 

And sent them scampering up the brook in fright, 

To peep back at him through the water-cress, 

And wonder at his roguish, ringing laugh. 

He gazed upon his image in the brook, 

And marveled at his own enchanting charms; 

His cheeks, like ruby wines, blue eyes, bright hair, 

The rounded, flower-like beauty of his form. 

He blushed to see his utter nakedness, 

And that which mortals seek to hide from sight, 

But felt a boyish pride and secret joy 

To feel and see his manhood drawing near. 

He knew no maiden could resist his beauty, 

And in his heart exulted at the thought. 

"I'll scorn them all," he said unto himself, 

"And drive them mad to get one stingy smile. 

I'll rule them, chained before me by their love, 

And they shall long in vain to kiss my feet." 

Then turning round, he saw Leona there, 
With jealous passion burning in her eyes; 
For much she craved the sweetness of his charms, 
Yet hating him because his heart was cold. 

"Leona!" faltered he; "art spying still? 
I am a-weary of thy hateful eyes." 
"Narcissus!" cried she, quickly, "I am mad, — 
Mad with fierce love and flaming jealousy. 
Beware ! Beware ! lest thou shouldst force thy slave 
To bring destruction on thy hapless head." 

[ 283 ] 



Selected Poems 



"Leona, I defy thy silly threats. 

I am the son of water-god and nymph : 

Free I was born, and free will ever be. 

I am immortal; what have I to fear? 

For Zeus himself can never take my life, 

And thou art but a weak and wandering sprite." 

"I know, Narcissus, thou canst never die, 
But, selfish creature, I may curse thee still; 
I may call down such anguish and despair 
That life itself would be an agony. 
Be mine, Narcissus, hearken to my prayer! 
Be mine, or I will curse thee and myself!" 

"Begone! Begone!" he cried, impatiently, 

And turned his eyes in anger from her face, 

Looking towards the woods beyond the brook. 

A deadly silence seemed to shroud the place, 

And all the forest huddled close with fear. 

He turned again; Leona's face had fled, 

But oh, the spectre there before his eyes! 

For just a pace beyond him stood a Shape 

Whose awful presence curdled all his blood. 

It was a woman with a sweeping robe 

That shrouded her in ghastly spectral folds. 

In her right hand she held a scorpion whip, 

And in her left a leafy branch of ash. 

Her face was livid, pale and pinched and wan, 

With burning eyes beneath her haggard brows, 

Like fiery embers in volcanic cones. 

He could not move, as though his limbs were stone, 

His brow was damp with cold and clammy dews. 

She gazed upon him sternly; then she said, 

"Thyself shalt bring a curse upon thyself. 

He who loves not another, loves himself, 

And he shall long in vain to soothe his soul ; 

[ 284 ] 



Selected Toetns 



True love drinks life-blood from another heart, 
But selfish love doth gnaw upon his own. 
Farewell! thy choice is made, and thou shalt find 
In loving self thou graspest at a shade." 

Ill 

She glided from him like a ghost of night, 

And glimmered faintly through the branching boughs 

Till lost to sight amid the forest gloom. 

Narcissus shivered, for the breeze had chilled, 
And trembling birds for fear had ceased to sing. 
The nymphs, aroused, had fled before her face. 
The startled, shuddering trees with horror moaned, 
Like huddled cattle, when, on tainted air, 
With horns erect, eyes starting, mad with fear, 
And lowing, groaning deep and piteously, 
From altar stones they smell their comrade's blood. 

Again he turned and gazed upon the brook, 
And saw himself reflected in its waves. 
Again he saw his sweet lips, glowing cheeks, 
His azure eyes, his rippling golden hair, 
His rounded, dimpled arms, his dainty feet, 
And all the naked wonders of his form. 
Then what a world of wistful agony 
Seized on his soul while gazing in the brook! 
Oh, how he loved that shadow of himself! 
Oh, how he longed to clasp it in his arms, 
Oh, how he longed to kiss its rich, red mouth! 
What eager yearning swayed his bounding heart, 
What flaming passion fired his leaping blood ! 

Such deep desire, such maddening thrills of love, — 

A heaven of bliss, but just beyond his reach! 

His pulses, throbbing wildly to his head, 

Swooned through him like a fierce, voluptuous dream. 

[ 285 ] 



Selected Poems 



He sought to kiss his own lips in despair, 

His own breast struggled vainly to embrace. 

And then the deep eyes of the shadow there 

Seemed begging him to share their languorous sweets. 

Its mouth seemed longing to be pressed to his, 

Its arms inviting to their swoonful realm. 

Pierced with his pain, he could resist no more, 
But leaped to clasp the shadow to his heart. 
In vain, in vain ! A splash, a chilly thrill, 
And then the shadow fled before his eyes ! 
He struggled with the icy, mantling waves, 
Clung to the grassy bank, and climbed to shore, 
But cold and shivering with the trickling drops. 
Again he looked upon the cruel brook 
That now had cursed him with his own fair face, 
And once again he saw the shadow sweet 
Gaze fondly at him from the mirror there. 
No lover ever longed to clasp his love 
With half such fervor as Narcissus did. 
But yet, alas! that passion could be fed 
On rounded beauties of the loved one's breast, 
And lulled to sleep by blissful blandishments. 
All others who have loved, with amorous play 
Have felt at last their passion satisfied, 
Have drank the bubbling cup of Cupid's joy, 
And cooled the raging fever of desire. 
But his love was a fire with naught to quench, 
A sleepless craving that had naught to lull ; 
He hungered for a fruit he could not taste, 
He thirsted for a cup he could not quaff. 

The lover who hath not his love returned 
Hath yet the sympathy of every heart, 
Hath others, placed like him, to share his grief, 
And feels ennobled by his sad, sweet pain. 

[ 286 ] 



Selected Toetns 



The guilty lovers, scorned by all the world, 
Still find a happier world within themselves. 
But oh, the horror of unnatural love, 
Beyond the sympathy of every soul ! 
With no one sharing in that agony, 
His hectic cheeks a-flush with baffled shame ! 

And then, again, he felt such agony 
He leaped once more amid the chilly waves. 
Ah, still in vain! A splash, an icy thrill, 
And once again the Shape eluded him ! 
Then deep despair fell on him like a shroud, 
And like a child lost in the night, he sobbed. 

The twilight, like a priestess, crowned with stars, 

Draped Day's fair ringlets in the veil of night, 

Stabbed his white bosom, lit his funeral pyre, 

And with her victim died in crimson flames. 

The swallow glided to his eave to sleep ; 

The wild dove fluttered to her peaceful nest; 

The shepherd drove his thirsty flocks to drink, 

Then led them, bleating, to their nightly fold; 

The new moon, like a harvest sickle, shone 

Through golden grains and flowers in fields of heaven ; 

The gentle shadows gathered in the woods, 

And laid kind hands on Nature's dreaming soul. 

But still Narcissus lay beside the brook, 

Longing to perish with the hapless day, 

Whose curse had pierced him with an agony 

Which never could be soothed by balms of night. 



IV 



The weary days lagged on like crippled churls, 
And sweet Narcissus withered in despair. 
His blue eyes faded with their sleepless cares, 
Like desert skies with parching fervor wan. 

[ 287 ] 



Selected Poems 



His crimson lips were mutely quivering 

Like flaming dead leaves in the autumn winds. 

His dimpled cheeks were pinched, and blanched and thin, 

Like great white roses fading day by day. 

His graceful step came to a weary halt 

Like stiffened lameness of the wounded doe. 

Hour after hour he gazed upon the brook, 

And the big tears dropped in its azure waves. 

But still he lived while ever loathing life, 

And begging heaven to be allowed to die. 

He gazed in anguish at the ghostly face 

Which in despair looked up from depths below, 

With mournful eyes, and outstretched bony hands 

That beckoned to him like an aspen's leaves. 

One day when lying on a bank of moss 

He heard a rustle, — Echo's stealthy step. 

"Narcissus!" said she sweetly in his ear. 

He turned toward her, bursting into tears. 

No longer did he try to flee her face, 

But longed to blend his bitter grief with hers. 

"Narcissus," said she, "I shall share thy woe. 

My hapless heart shall ever throb with thine. 

Long have I watched thee, feared to come to thee, 

But thou, I know, wilt never drive me hence. 

Thy hopeless love consumes thine own sad heart, 

And mine upon that heart is cast away ; 

Our souls are bound together by a bond 

Of mutual, never-changing misery." 

He wept, then laid his head upon her breast, 

And soon with sobbing lulled himself to sleep. 

What bounding, leaping throbs of wild delight, 
What dreamy, balmy, soothing spells of bliss, 
Filled all her soul while clasping him to heart! 
She softly smoothed his thin, disheveled locks, 
And tenderly she stroked his pallid cheeks. 

[ 288 ] 



Selected Poems 



She would have given the treasures of the sea 

For one strong pressure on that dreaming face, 

And all the gold of all the tribes of earth 

For one close clasping of those lovely arms, 

And all the glories of the starry skies 

For one warm kiss from that delicious mouth — 

But she dared not, for fear of waking him! 

Ah, hapless hearts, that beat together now, 

Yet parted by a universe of tears ! 

Ah, hapless souls, each craving for the same, 

And each forever doomed to pine in vain ! 

Ah, would that Fate had bound you both together 

Like bride and bridegroom on their nuptial night! 

Soon through the woods was heard the bay of hounds, 

And then the huntress nimph of Artemis 

Came tripping down the pathway to the brook, 

The hounds still yelping as she moved along. 

Her naked breasts were heaving joyously 

Like water-lilies on the rocking waves, 

While silvery laughter fluttered on her lips. 

Her shoulders bore the skin of spotted pard, 

Torn warm and bleeding from the victim's back. 

She opened her lips to cry out in delight, 

And speak to Echo of the morning's sport; 

But Echo beckoned her to tread tiptoe, 

And speak in whispers, that he might not wake, 

"Is this Narcissus?" asked the huntress maid; 

"Oh, what a fearful, wasting change is here! 

Once I beheld him like a milk-white fawn, 

But stricken now, and sinking down to die; 

Once I beheld him like a lotus flower, 

The peerless, swelling blossom wonderful, 

Then budding in unearthly loveliness, 

Now lying withered in the sultry dust. 

[ 289 ] 



Selected Toems 



"Once I beheld him like the round, full moon, 
In naked beauty rising on the night, 
With mellow, golden glory in its orb, 
O'er lovers true in odorous gardens sweet, 
But now, as gaunt and haggard as its wane, 
When hanging shattered, after night is dead, 
Above the bare boughs of a blasted wood, 
He sinks to perish in the Western wilds." 

Poor Echo could not answer for her tears. 
The huntress gazed in silence at the hounds 
Laving their gray flanks in the crystal stream, 
Lapping sweet waters with their jagged jaws, 
And shaking dewdrops from their hanging ears. 

Then said the huntress, starting, "I forgot, 

In speaking of Narcissus' great despair, 

To tell of that which surely brings thee joy. 

Thou dost remember that, on yester-eve, 

Down through the Western scarlet skies of flame 

A spotless swan came fluttering to thy feet, 

A cruel arrow rankling in his breast. 

Then thou, with kind hands, didst remove the dart, 

So that the swan arose and soared away. 

Know thou that swan belonged to Artemis, 

And she is grateful to thee, hapless girl. 

She bids me tell thee beg one boon of her, 

Speak the one wish that lieth next thy heart, 

And thou shalt see at once thy dream come true." 

Echo at first by this was so amazed 

She scarce made answer to the kindly nymph, 

But overjoyed, at last shed floods of tears, 

Gave heartfelt thanks, and cried out in delight, 

"Oh, I shall now to heavenly scenes return. 

Long have I wandered through these earthly wilds, 

And yearned again to see my happy home. 

[ 290 ] 



Selected Poems 



How often when November filled the skies 

With dead leaves flying from the haggard trees, — 

How often when the winter winds on high 

Bore flocks of cranes toward the Southern seas, — 

How often when the mortals passed me by 

In funeral trains, with some enshrouded form, — 

How often, in those days, I craved for thee, 

Olympus blest, free from decay and death! 

I long to see thy banquet-halls again, 

And take the ruby wine from Hebe's hands. 

I long to see dear Iris laugh once more, 

And spend sweet converse on the days gone by, 

To gaze on youthful Eros' face, and drink 

Immortal glory from his wondrous eyes!" 

But Fate would hearken not to Echo's prayer, 

Creating other woes to smite her soul. 

For then Narcissus murmured in his dreams, 

"Oh, would that I could die! but I can not; 

Immortal life the gods can not destroy. 

Oh, would that heaven, in pity on my grief, 

Might change me to some painless, dreamless flower ! 



?> 



Echo seemed stricken with a deadly wound, 
And then grew still and rigid as a stone. 
A moment like a century slowly passed, 
And then she said, "Will kindly Artemis 
Grant more than one wish unto hapless me? 
May I return to heaven, and save him too?" 

"Alas!" the nymph cried; "it can never be; 

For jealous Hera hates thee, hapless maid. 

My mistress scarce could gain consent from Zeus, 

Who hath betrayed thee to his furious queen, 

To let thee have fulfillment of one wish, 

And much great Hera murmured when she knew 

That this one favor was bestowed on thee. 

[ 291 ] 



Selected Poems 



Thou mayest choose to help Narcissus there, 
But if thou dost Olympus thou shalt lose. 
The curse upon Narcissus must remain 
As long as life is left within his breast, 
And as he is immortal, he must change 
His present shape, and live another life. 
He must be buried as the mortals are, 
And from his grave a blossom will ascend 
To take the life of him now in your arms. 
But that would be a special boon of heaven, 
And the great gods would do no more for thee." 

"Oh, no," cried Echo, "do not change his form! 
How can I bear to see my precious love 
Changed to the lifeless beauty of a plant? 
Oh, spare him, spare him! pity, pity me! 
For this would sink me ever in despair!" 



"But," said the other, "if he changes not, 

His soul must writhe in never-ending pain." 

"Ah!" Echo cried, "shall I be doomed forever 

On cheerless Earth to roam in banishment, 

And nevermore behold Olympus blest? 

And must I, hapless maiden, doom my love 

To sink forever in the dismal grave? 

What countless ages shall I wander here, 

To see earth wither in myriad years, 

Behold her cities ruined, desolate, 

And generations pass away and die ! 

To think that I must tread those endless years, 

Amid these deserts of decay and death, 

Without my love, the idol of my soul, 

And live, still live, alone, alone, alone!" 

"Still," said the huntress, "he must either change, 

Or live a life of endless agony. 



i » 



[ 292 ] 



Selected Poems 



"I love him," cried poor Echo, through her tears .- 
"Let it be so: his good shall be my prayer! 
I choose not to return to heaven with thee, 
But beg thy mistress to relieve his woes!" 
The huntress glided from her through the woods, 
But heard behind the piteous sounds of sobs; 
Turned, and beheld doomed Echo clasp her love 
As some fond mother hugs her dying child, 
Speak words of burning love within his ears, 
Then kiss her darling's face a thousand times ; 
And as the nymph towards Olympus soared, 
She heard, blurred by the distance, many moans, 
Till misty clouds obscured her view of earth, 
And rushing winds stilled all its dreamy hum. 



V 



And now the morning, like a gorgeous rose 

Bursts into blossom in a field of fire. 

Once more Aurora, in eternal youth, 

With pearly feet trips to her chariot throne; 

Once more her white steeds, shaking silvery manes, 

Leap forth, caparisoned in blue and gold; 

Once more her handmaids wreathe the clouds with flowers, 

From crystal goblets sprinkle ruby wines ; 

Once more the pale moon in their veils of light 

Is shrouded like a dead bride for the tomb ; 

Once more her sweet kiss thrills the dewy stars, 

Till all those orbs celestial faint with love, 

Then melt their glories on her milk-white breast, 

And perish in the splendor of her hair. 

But as the light fell on Narcissus' brow 
Its rosy flame tinged livid hues of death. 
The dryads swung amid the leafy boughs, 
The water-nymphs arose above the waves, 

[ 293 ] 



Selected Toems 



The sylphs flew round like jeweled butterflies, 
And zephyrs hummed like golden-winged bees. 
But Echo heeded not those beauteous forms, 
And saw naught save her darling dying there. 

His head lay pillowed on her tender breast 

Beneath the shadow of a hoary oak. 

His breath was coming slower, slower still, 

His eyes were ever growing dim and dark. 

He had been told how Artemis had given 

This one boon to her desolated heart. 

Oft had he thanked her for remembering him, 

But never knew what sacrifice she made. 

Alas! how often doth unselfish love 

See all its tears unnoticed or forgot ! 

"One boon I beg," sobbed Echo, timidly; 
"Wilt thou kiss me, my love, before thou diest?" 
He put his thin white arms around her neck. 
And faintly smiled upon her pallid face; 
He held his fevered, quivering lips to hers, 
And fell back fainting in her trembling arms; 
Then, sinking slowly, bowed his golden head, 
And with one lingering, piteous moan, he died. 
A curdling cry pierced through the startled air, 
And woeful Echo held a leaden corpse. 



The pensive Evening trod the Western hills, 
Her saffron mantle glowing in the skies 
Like yellow foliage of the autumn woods. 
Through silent dells and lonely mountain groves 
Her dusky shades, like mourners, crept along. 
Then all the shepherds of the neighboring vales, 
And all the lovely mortal damsels there, 
Came gathering round to look upon his face, 
Soon to be hid beneath the chilly clods. 

[ 294 ] 



Selected Poems 



And maiden hands brought many a fragrant flower 

To scatter on his sad, untimely grave, — 

White, azure, pink and purple hyacinths, 

With valley-lilies, frail and delicate, 

And crocus-blossoms, pansies rich and dark, 

Soft buttercups and creamy daffodils, 

The modest white and purple violets, 

New-opened daisies, with their hearts of gold, 

Sweet cowslips, and primroses gemmed with dew. 

But he was lovelier than those beauteous buds, 

And sweeter than their faintly odorous breath. 

His pearly eyelids, closed forevermore, 

Now hid the azure of his dreaming eyes; 

His pallid cheeks lay slumbering calm and still; 

The tiny dimples slept around his mouth; 

His soft white hands were folded on his heart, 
Like two sweet doves dead in one little nest ; 
Pure water-lilies wreathed his golden hair, 
And rich musk-roses bloomed above his breast. 

They buried him in chill and cheerless earth, 
To be the prey of death's corrupting hand, 
And every clod that fell upon him there 
Dropped like a mountain upon Echo's heart. 

Months passed away, and then a pallid plant 
Arose and blossomed on his lonely grave. 
And even now it bears Narcissus' name. 

Then Echo glided from the sight of men, 
And wandered through the trackless wilderness, 
Through lonely valleys, mountains high and still, 
Forever weeping, calling out his name. 
She pined away, grew pale and paler still, 
Then flitted like the shadow of a curse, 
Until at last her voice alone was left 
To answer vaguely every idle sound. 

[ 295 ] 



Selected Toems 



Great nations perish, but she can not die; 
Vast empires crumble, but she lingers still. 
The gray gods in Olympus' lofty halls 
From jeweled goblets quaff their nectar still ; 
She, unforgiven, never can return, 
Her name forgotten by them long ago. 
And so she wanders ever, suffering still 
Undying anguish and undying love. 

TO DR. J. J. WHEAT 

There is a wondrous power in earthly song, 

Whose eagle spirit soars to Paradise, 
Too free and happy for this world of wrong, 

Too glorious for our cloud-encircled skies. 
The liquid bird-notes at the dawn of day, 

The wanton winds that kiss the budding flowers, 
Breathe echoes of an Eden far away, 

And sing the beauties of its fadeless bowers. 
Our yearning hearts leap forth with them to soar, 

And by their airy wings are borne on high ; 
We break the chains of clay which once we wore, 

And feel too happy for a tear or sigh. 

But eloquence like thine can sway the mind 

More strongly than the trumpet's loftiest peal, 
More deeply than the moaning midnight wind, 

More sweetly than the witching wavelet's spell. 
The organ's grand triumphant harmony 

Moves not the soul more than thy swelling voice; 
The master-singer's notes that mount on high 

Have not more power to make man's heart rejoice. 
And like Arion singing to the sea, 

Till gathering dolphins shone like rainbow clouds, 
I marvel as thou bringest forth for me 

Sweet dreams and visions out of tombs and shrouds. 

[ 296 ] 



Selected Toems 



When listening to thee, Fancy breaks her bars, 

And follows in thy free, unbounded flight; 
She wends her way beyond the farthest stars, 

And bathes her pinions in eternal light. 
We wander with thee by blue Galilee, 

Where every wavelet sings a sacred song; 
The vine-clad rocks of Nazareth we see, 

Where Jesus, weak and foot-sore, passed along. 
We see poor Mary shedding bitter tears, 

Which wash forever all her sins away, 
And then the woman at the well, who hears 

Of that unfailing fount which springs in endless day. 



A FEBRUARY SUNSET 

Beside this frozen marsh the sedges sigh, 

While keen-edged winds like sabres cut their way; 

A water-fowl is floating there on high, 
Seeking some far-off home at close of day. 

The ghostly hills are shrouded white in snow, 
Brown boughs, a-shiver nakedly, are numb; 

A wandering black-robed friar, limps a crow, 
To find on hardened clods a stingy crumb. 

Here weeds and brambles, thickly interlaced, 
Hangs frail embroidery of hoary frost ; 

Here tiny tracks of hares are lightly traced ; 
A crying snow-bird seeks the mate h e lost. 

A herd of cows goes stumbling up the hill, 

Sunk to their knees in drifts like billowed foam ; 

Waving a stick and whistling sharp and shrill, 
A red-cheeked farmer-boy directs them home. 

[ 297 ] 



Selected "Poems 



Near by, the haggard wild-rose bushes spread, 
Like bristling porcupines of prong and thorn ; 

A lonesome leaf, where other leaves have fled, 
Is all a-shiver, faded and forlorn. 

A cottage rises in the fields of white, 

Its smoke is curling tremulous and thin; 

Its windows glow like jaspers through the night, 
Rich with the warmth of blissful love within. 

There like a dewdrop in a scarlet flower 
A star is twinkling in the ruddy sky, 

And sprinkling snow-fields in a silver shower, 
The new moon's horn of plenty hangs on high. 

The sunset splendor makes the twilight glow 
In purple and in orange clouds of fire, 

As conquering Alexander long ago 

Gave to the torch imperial towers of Tyre. 

The world seems woeful, all its laughter lost, 
The golden dreams of June forever dead, 

No bird, no bud, it seems could brave this frost, 
No May- time resurrect the foliage fled. 

And yet the landscape seems expecting Spring, 
The harsh north wind seems chanting prophecy, 

As^though a dead man felt an angel's wing, 
And smiled to know his soul could never die. 



OUT OF THE FOLD 

One is astray from the Shepherd's fold, 
One is astray on the mountains cold, 
Treading alone through the fading light, 
Treading alone through the coming night. 

[ 298 ] 



Selected Poems 



And the shepherd calls in his sweet, wild way 
Through the dreary dusk of the dying day, 
Through the falling dews and the misty gloam, 
For the one poor sheep that has strayed from home. 

Weary and worn, with a piteous cry, 

Weary and worn, he is sinking to die, 

While the gaunt, gray wolves through the deserts dark, 

Follow him fast with their fearful bark. 

Will the Shepherd bear on his bosom warm 
The wounded sheep from hurt and from harm? 
Shall the poor lost lamb be left to his fate? 
Shall the Shepherd come too late, too late? 

So runneth the story so sweet and so old 

Of the sheep astray in the mountains cold, 

Treading alone at dusk to his doom, 

While the Shepherd calls through the gathering gloom. 

So I am treading in piteous plight 

Through the grief and gloom, through the coming night, 

Treading the streets of the wicked town, 

Treading the streets when the sun goes down. 

Bearing a breast all burdened with woes 
Through the biting winds and the bitter snows, 
Suppressing a sob and choking a cry, 
Hopeless of rest, yet fearing to die. 

I have scoffed and scorned to smother my fears, 
I have laughed aloud at thy streaming tears, 
I have sung gay songs and quaffed of the wine 
To forget thy face with its love divine. 

Where the red light glares like an eye of fire, 
In a gaudy room and in gay attire, 
In the poisoned air, like a dragon's breath, 
I stand at the stairs of the halls of death. 

[ 299 1 



Selected Poems 



But behold, at my door the Shepherd stands, 
And beckons to me with his bleeding hands, 
And I see his feet all weary and worn, 
His wounded breast and his crown of thorn ! 

Merciful Christ, with the princely grace, 
Merciful Christ, with the sad, sweet face, 
Merciful Christ, with the mournful eyes, 
Remember me when the daylight dies ! 

Merciful Christ, thou hast followed afar 
Under midnight moon, under evening star, 
Treading with tears through forest and flood, 
And tracing thy path with the stains of blood. 

Merciful Christ, thou hast sought me here, 
Through the mountains cold and the deserts drear ; 
Merciful Christ, am I left to my fate? 
Merciful Christ, hast thou come too late? 

I have heard thy voice as I passed along 
Through the reveller's shout and the siren's song, 
Through laughter, through fall of the dancing feet, 
And the wicked jests of the crowded street; 

But I perish alone in shame and in sin 
Though I long to arise and welcome thee in. 
Merciful Christ, I cry unto thee, 
Merciful Christ, have pity on me! 

But the revellers riot, and the lewd songs swell, 
And they numb my soul like a funeral knell ; 
In the noisy night, with its glitter and glare, 
I wring my hands in my dark despair. 

And I turn to thee in my dumb dismay, 
As the demons cry like the wolves for prey ; 
Merciful Christ, shall thy feet depart 
And leave me alone with my broken heart? 

[ 300 ] 



Selected Toems 



O Shepherd, come with thy footsteps fleet, 
With my falling tears I shall wash thy feet, 
And thy love shall lave my stains of despair, 
As I wipe them dry with my streaming hair. 

'JESUS WEPT'' 

My Master bides not at the rich man's palace on this day, 
Where mirth and music, wine and feasting speed the 

hours away ; 
His weary, way-worn feet have brought him to this humble 

door, 
And there the Prince of Heaven sits weeping with the 

friendless poor. 

O blessed Lord, friend of the friendless, happy should 

they be, 
Their burning grief and anguish sharing side by side with 

thee! 
For in this doubting age we can but moan and beg thy 

grace, 
But can not see thy loving tears nor know thy gentle 

face. 

Though in that rich man's palace swells the sound of 

revelry, 
To-morrow in that palace shall the wail of anguish be ; 
Though in this poor man's hovel stalks the horrid spectre 

Death, 
Soon shall he vanish at the great King's life-inspiring 

breath. 

Oh, wondrous sight, a Monarch sitting in that peasant cot, 

Oh, wondrous sight, the Lord of angels in this lowly lot; 

Oh, wondrous sight, here treads the ruler of the suns and 

stars, 

Oh, wondrous sight, our God is weeping at Earth's prison 

bars! 

[ 301 ] 



Selected Toems 



I wonder if his moanings did not change to music sweet, 
I wonder if the blossoms did not spring to kiss his feet, 
Ifwonder if the watching angels gathered up those tears 
And made them starry clusters, shining through the end- 
less years. 

For they were purer than the dews on lilies newly blown, 
More brilliant than an empress' jeweled diadem they 

shone ; 
More radiant than the treasures that the ocean caves 

adorn, 
More glorious than the Oriental splendors of the morn. 

Those blessed, blessed tear-drops, falling on our dreary 

dearth, 
Have wooed a golden harvest from the withered breast of 

earth, 
Have melted, too, a myriad million selfish hearts of stone, 
And blotted out uncounted sins in earth's vast records 

shown. 

And though a thousand demons seek to give thy cause a 

thrust, 
Those burning tears have worn their cruel daggers into 

rust, 
And though a hundred empires at thee hurl their gathered 

powers, 
Those holy tear-drops, like a flood, sweep down their 

haughty towers. 

And though a host of bigots burning with a furious zeal 
Have sought to aid their false creeds with the chain and 

stake and wheel, 
Those tears have quenched their fires, torn down their 

walls and iron bars, 
Thy cause triumphant over steel and torch and wrecks 

and wars. 

[ 302 ] 



Selected Toems 



Oh, blessed tears, with rainbow colors yearning earth 

illume, 
Oh, blessed tears, with lotus flowers make blissful heaven 

bloom! 
Rain on the sons of men, on every soul that ever fell, 
And like a mighty ocean quench the flaming gates of hell! 



BURIAL OF AN OLD SLAVE 

Around me, brambles tangle on the graves, 
And ivy sprays are creeping on the stones ; 

Beside one shattered urn a foxglove waves, 

While awe-struck thrushes chirp in undertones. 

Outside, a field of broomsedge, waste and bare, 
And thickets of the red and yellow plum, 

And nearer, on the purple thistles there, 
Goldfinches in a brilliant cluster come. 

Here tombstones hanging sideways to the earth 
By winds and rains are dappled into gray; 

Brown lichens have erased the dates of birth 
And years in which the sleepers passed away. 

Grim sentinel, still facing to the west, 

The old slave-master's granite headstone looms; 

His young wife and her baby lie at rest 
Where yon wild rose sheds pink and pearly blooms. 

Almost effaced, you read a young girl's name; 

Just sixteen when she died! Here passed away 
The first-born son, who like a triumph came; 

In whose dead hands Hope crumbled into clay. 

[ 303 ] 



Selected Toems 



Down there are buried all the family slaves, 

Relics of ways and customs obsolete ; 
A few headboards of wood slant on their graves, 

As, year by year, weeds grow and weathers beat. 

Up yonder lane a strange procession comes, 

And sounds of weird, sweet singing strike the ears; 

Then a shrill fife, and then the beat of drums, 
A chant that seems the ghost of bygone years. 

Ah, many lives have passed since neighbors came, 

Bringing a sleeper to this home to bide ; 
But this gray negro, last of all the name, 

Has sought again his old-time master's side. 

Nearer they come, a wagon for a bier; 

The rails are lowered at the roadside fence ; 
The team pulls through — two mules in well-worn gear — 

Welcome, old friend, to your last residence! 

What songs are these, so mellow, wild and sweet, 

Of Salem and its glories far away, 
Where Change and Death glide not on stealthy feet, 

Nor leaves in dim October skies decay? 

What child-like faith, that sings of princely palms, 
Of fountains gushing through the fields of green ! 

What child-like faith, that sings of blissful calms, 
And splendors that no sage has ever seen ! 

Strange, a poor negro in this far-off place, 
Trusting a Friend, sinks in his coffin low, 

Believes that Friend, forgetting not his face, 

Will find him where these weeds and brambles grow. 

Rose-breasted grosbeak, lighting on yon limb 
And singing as no bird hath sung before, 

Is it a note of triumph trilled for him, 
The dead slave, free and happy evermore? 

C 304 ] 



Selected Toetns 



RENAN'S LIFE OF JESUS 

Wonderful story of sad, sad years, 
Wonderful story of toils and tears, 
Annals of anguish, of grief and gloom, 
Breaking at last into brilliant bloom. 

Over and over again I tread 
Vistas where Jesus has begged His bread, 
Soothing and healing, with words of love 
Whiter than wings of a snow-white dove. 

Beautiful words that silence our strife, 
Beautiful words of light and of life, 
Beautiful words no doom can destroy, 
Beautiful words bringing dreams of joy; 

Beautiful words that shall right all wrongs, 
Beautiful words like the angel's songs, 
Beautiful words that have calmed my fears, 
Beautiful words that have dried my tears. 

Sweeter than breath of the springtime flowers, 
Softer than swirls of the autumn showers, 
Splendor of song and splendor of story, 
Decking his brows with garlands of glory! 

Lighter than touch of an angel's fingers, 
Clearer than notes of the stateliest singers, 
Pathos of winds in the pine-trees sighing, 
Sobs of a harp in the distance dying! 

Dreaming of Thee, I ponder alone, 
Longing for Thee, I sob and I moan, 
Doubting and fearing, forever I grieve, 
Crying to Thee, "O make me believe!" 

[ 305 ] 



Selected Poems 



After Your feet have trod to each door, 
After You bless the rich and the poor, 
After You smile on hut and on hall, 
Come unto me, the vilest of all. 

When the daylight dies in twilight cold, 
And the watchers come my hands to fold, 
When my poor dim eyes no pathway see, 
O Prince of Heaven, will you think of me? 



THE HYMNS OF CHARLES WESLEY 

What simple strains are these, to live so long, 

To move so many in so many lands, 
When self-appointed arbiters of song 

Are all effaced like scribblings in the sands. 

In dens of London, choked with sin and shame, 
The beggar and the burglar stop to hear; 

And in the night, beneath the street-lamp's flame, 
The ruined woman feels a burning tear. 

In mines of Cornwall, underneath the sea, 
The grimy laborer hears their martial tread, 

Their fervent call from coming wrath to flee, 
Above the ocean thunders overhead. 

Amid Missouri forests, dark and lone, 
And by the Mississippi's turbid waves, 

In nameless churchyards, bramble-overgrown, 
Their converts fill a thousand graves. 

Among the rude huts of the pioneers, 

Those hymns awoke the wilderness at dark, 

Above the cries of wild beasts, fraught with fears, 
The panther's growling and the gray wolf's bark. 

[ 306 ] 



Selected Poems 



So I remember, when a barefoot boy, 

I thrilled to hear thy wondrous trumpet-call 

To Zion, and its days of deathless joy, 
Its crystal river and its jasper wall. 

And, led by thee, I saw its clustered palms, 
Its shining summits with their diamond skies, 

A Beulah-land, with everlasting calms, 
And lilies wet with dews of Paradise. 

And thou didst sing the Savior's loving care, 
Seeking his lost sheep through the fading light, 

To snatch and save him from the lion's lair, 
Amid the deserts, in the coming night. 

These hymns have raised the peasant from the sod, 
Have made the rude half-savage nature sweet, 

Have reared a score of Kingdoms unto God, 
And laid a million hearts at Jesus' feet. 



EPITAPH FOR MYSELF 

Stranger, that passeth my lone house of clay, 
Pause for one moment in a gentle mood ; 
Think not your sigh of pity thrown away, 
For I would say "God bless you," if I could. 



[ 307 ] 



311-77-9 



Deacjdified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: Sept. 2009 

PreservationTechnofoqies 

A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERMT.ON 

111 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Township, PA 16066 
(724) 779-2111 



